Title: Wildfire
Author: Zane Grey
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Language: English
Date first posted: Oct 2006
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FOR some reason the desert scene before Lucy Bostil awoke
varying emotions—a sweet gratitude for the fullness of her life there
at the Ford, yet a haunting remorse that she could not be wholly
content—a vague loneliness of soul—a thrill and a fear for the
strangely calling future, glorious, unknown.

She longed for something to happen. It might be terrible, so long as it
was wonderful. This day, when Lucy had stolen away on a forbidden horse, she
was eighteen years old. The thought of her mother, who had died long ago on
their way into this wilderness, was the one drop of sadness in her joy. Lucy
loved everybody at Bostil's Ford and everybody loved her. She loved all the
horses except her father's favorite racer, that perverse devil of a horse,
the great Sage King.

Lucy was glowing and rapt with love for all she beheld from her lofty
perch: the green-and-pink blossoming hamlet beneath her, set between the
beauty of the gray sage expanse and the ghastliness of the barren heights;
the swift Colorado sullenly thundering below in the abyss; the Indians in
their bright colors, riding up the river trail; the eagle poised like a
feather on the air, and a beneath him the grazing cattle making black dots on
the sage; the deep velvet azure of the sky; the golden lights on the bare
peaks and the lilac veils in the far ravines; the silky rustle of a canyon
swallow as he shot downward in the sweep of the wind; the fragrance of cedar,
the flowers of the spear-pointed mescal; the brooding silence, the beckoning
range, the purple distance.

Whatever it was Lucy longed for, whatever was whispered by the wind and
written in the mystery of the waste of sage and stone, she wanted it to
happen there at Bostil's Ford. She had no desire for civilization, she
flouted the idea of marrying the rich rancher of Durango. Bostil's sister,
that stern but lovable woman who had brought her up and taught her, would
never persuade her to marry against her will. Lucy imagined herself like a
wild horse—free, proud, untamed, meant for the desert; and here she
would live her life. The desert and her life seemed as one, yet in what did
they resemble each other—in what of this scene could she read the
nature of her future?

Shudderingly she rejected the red, sullen, thundering river, with its
swift, changeful, endless, contending strife—for that was tragic. And
she rejected the frowning mass of red rock, upreared, riven and split and
canyoned, so grim and aloof—for that was barren. But she accepted the
vast sloping valley of sage, rolling gray and soft and beautiful, down to the
dim mountains and purple ramparts of the horizon. Lucy did not know what she
yearned for, she did not know why the desert called to her, she did not know
in what it resembled her spirit, but she did know that these three feelings
were as one, deep in her heart. For ten years, every day of her life, she had
watched this desert scene, and never had there been an hour that it was not
different, yet the same. Ten years—and she grew up watching, feeling
—till from the desert's thousand moods she assimilated its nature,
loved her bonds, and could never have been happy away from the open, the
color, the freedom, the wildness. On this birthday, when those who loved her
said she had become her own mistress, she acknowledged the claim of the
desert forever. And she experienced a deep, rich, strange happiness.

Hers always then the mutable and immutable desert, the leagues and leagues
of slope and sage and rolling ridge, the great canyons and the giant cliffs,
the dark river with its mystic thunder of waters, the pine-fringed plateaus,
the endless stretch of horizon, with its lofty, isolated, noble monuments,
and the bold ramparts with their beckoning beyond! Hers always the desert
seasons: the shrill, icy blast, the intense cold, the steely skies, the
fading snows; the gray old sage and the bleached grass under the pall of the
spring sand-storms; the hot furnace breath of summer, with its magnificent
cloud pageants in the sky, with the black tempests hanging here and there
over the peaks, dark veils floating down and rainbows everywhere, and the
lacy waterfalls upon the glistening cliffs and the thunder of the red floods;
and the glorious golden autumn when it was always afternoon and time stood
still! Hers always the rides in the open, with the sun at her back and the
wind in her face! And hers surely, sooner or later, the nameless adventure
which had its inception in the strange yearning of her heart and presaged its
fulfilment somewhere down that trailless sage-slope she loved so well!

Bostil's house was a crude but picturesque structure of red stone and
white clay and bleached cottonwoods, and it stood at the outskirts of the
cluster of green-inclosed cabins which composed the hamlet. Bostil was wont
to say that in all the world there could hardly be a grander view than the
outlook down that gray sea of rolling sage, down to the black-fringed
plateaus and the wild, blue-rimmed and gold-spired horizon.

One morning in early spring, as was Bostil's custom, he ordered the racers
to be brought from the corrals and turned loose on the slope. He loved to sit
there and watch his horses graze, but ever he saw that the riders were close
at hand, and that the horses did not get out on the slope of sage. He sat
back and gloried in the sight. He owned bands of mustangs; near by was a
field of them, fine and mettlesome and racy; yet Bostil had eyes only for the
blooded favorites. Strange it was that not one of these was a mustang or a
broken wild horse, for many of the riders' best mounts had been captured by
them or the Indians. And it was Bostil's supreme ambition to own a great wild
stallion. There was Plume, a superb mare that got her name from the way her
mane swept in the wind when she was on the ran; and there was Two Face, like
a coquette, sleek and glossy and running and the huge, rangy bay, Dusty Ben;
and the black stallion Sarchedon; and lastly Sage King, the color of the
upland sage, a racer in build, a horse splendid and proud and beautiful.

"Where's Lucy?" presently asked Bostil.

As he divided his love, so he divided his anxiety.

Some rider had seen Lucy riding off, with her golden hair flying in the
wind. This was an old story.

"She's up on Buckles?" Bostil queried, turning sharply the speaker.

"Reckon so," was the calm reply.

Bostil swore. He did not have a rider who could equal him in
profanity.

"Farlane, you'd orders. Lucy's not to ride them hosses, least of all
Buckles. He ain't safe even for a man."

"Wal, he's safe fer Lucy."

"But didn't I say no?"

"Boss, it's likely you did, fer you talk a lot," replied Farlane. "Lucy
pulled my hat down over my eyes—told me to go to thunder—an'
then, zip! she an' Buckles were dustin' it fer the sage."

"She's got to keep out of the sage," growled Bostil. "It ain't safe for
her out there.... Where's my glass? I want to take a look at the slope.
Where's my glass?"

The glass could not be found.

"What's makin' them dust-clouds on the sage? Antelope?... Holley, you used
to have eyes better 'n me. Use them, will you?"

"Wal, boss, who could catch her up on Buckles? Lucy can ride. An' there's
the King an' Sarch right under your nose—the only hosses on the sage
thet could outrun Buckles."

Farlane knew how to mollify his master and long habit had made him
proficient. Bostil's eyes flashed. He was proud of Lucy's power over a horse.
The story Bostil first told to any stranger happening by the Ford was how
Lucy had been born during a wild ride—almost, as it were, on the back
of a horse. That, at least, was her fame, and the riders swore she was a
worthy daughter of such a mother. Then, as Farlane well knew, a quick road to
Bostil's good will was to praise one of his favorites.

"Reckon you spoke sense for once, Farlane," replied Bostil, with relief.
"I wasn't thinkin' so much of danger for Lucy.... But she lets thet
half-witted Creech go with her."

"No, boss, you're wrong," put in Holley, earnestly. "I know the girl. She
has no use fer Joel. But he jest runs after her."

The two horses named were facing a ridge some few hundred yards distant,
and their heads were aloft and ears straight forward. Sage King whistled
shrilly and Sarchedon began to prance.

"Boys, you'd better drive them in," said Bostil. "They'd like nothin' so
well as gettin' out on the sage.... Hullo! what's thet shootin' up behind the
ridge?"

No more 'n Buckles with Lucy makin' him run some," replied Holley, with a
dry laugh.

"If it ain't!... Lord! look at him come!"

Bostil's anger and anxiety might never have been. The light of the upland
rider's joy shone in his keen gaze. The slope before him was open, and almost
level, down to the ridge that had hidden the missing girl and horse. Buckles
was running for the love of running, as the girl low down over his neck was
riding for the love of riding. The Sage King whistled again, and shot off
with graceful sweep to meet them; Sarchedon plunged after him; Two Face and
Plume jealously trooped down, too, but Dusty Ben, after a toss of his head,
went on grazing. The gray and the black met Buckles and could not turn in
time to stay with him. A girl's gay scream pealed up the slope, and Buckles
went lower and faster. Sarchedon was left behind. Then the gray King began to
run as if before he had been loping. He was beautiful in action. This was
play—a game—a race—plainly dominated by the spirit of the
girl. Lucy's hair was a bright stream of gold in the wind. She rode bareback.
It seemed that she was hunched low over Buckles with her knees high on his
back—scarcely astride him at all. Yet her motion was one with the
horse. Again that wild, gay scream pealed out—call or laugh or
challenge. Sage King, with a fleetness that made the eyes of Bostil and his
riders glisten, took the lead, and then sheered off to slow down, while
Buckles thundered past. Lucy was pulling him hard, and had him plunging to a
halt, when the rider Holley ran out to grasp his bridle. Buckles was snorting
and his ears were laid back. He pounded the ground and scattered the
pebbles.

"No use, Lucy," said Bostil. "You can't beat the King at your own game,
even with a runnin' start."

Lucy Bostil's eyes were blue, as keen as her father's, and now they
flashed like his. She had a hand twisted in the horse's long mane, and as,
lithe and supple, she slipped a knee across his broad back she shook a little
gantleted fist at Bostil's gray racer.

"Sage King, I hate you!" she called, as if the horse were human. "And I'll
beat you some day!"

Bostil swore by the gods his Sage King was the swiftest horse in all that
wild upland country of wonderful horses. He swore the great gray could look
back over his shoulder and run away from any broken horse known to the
riders.

Bostil himself was half horse, and the half of him that was human he
divided between love of his fleet racers and his daughter Lucy. He had seen
years of hard riding on that wild Utah border where, in those days, a horse
meant all the world to a man. A lucky strike of grassy upland and good water
south of the Rio Colorado made him rich in all that he cared to own. The
Indians, yet unspoiled by white men, were friendly. Bostil built a boat at
the Indian crossing of the Colorado and the place became known as Bostil's
Ford. From time to time his personality and his reputation and his need
brought horse-hunters, riders, sheep-herders, and men of pioneer spirit, as
well as wandering desert travelers, to the Ford, and the lonely, isolated
hamlet slowly grew. North of the river it was more than two hundred miles to
the nearest little settlement, with only a few lonely ranches on the road; to
the west were several villages, equally distant, but cut off for two months
at a time by the raging Colorado, flooded by melting snow up in the
mountains. Eastward from the Ford stretched a ghastly, broken, unknown desert
of canyons. Southward rolled the beautiful uplands, with valleys of sage and
grass, and plateaus of pine and cedar, until this rich rolling gray and green
range broke sharply on a purple horizon line of upflung rocky ramparts and
walls and monuments, wild, dim, and mysterious.

Bostil's cattle and horses were numberless, and many as were his riders,
he always could use more. But most riders did not abide long with Bostil,
first because some of them were of a wandering breed, wild-horse hunters
themselves; and secondly, Bostil had two great faults: he seldom paid a rider
in money, and he never permitted one to own a fleet horse. He wanted to own
all the fast horses himself. And in those days every rider, especially a
wild-horse hunter, loved his steed as part of himself. If there was a
difference between Bostil and any rider of the sage, it was that, as he had
more horses, so he had more love.

Whenever Bostil could not get possession of a horse he coveted, either by
purchase or trade, he invariably acquired a grievance toward the owner. This
happened often, for riders were loath to part with their favorites. And he
had made more than one enemy by his persistent nagging. It could not be said,
however, that he sought to drive hard bargains. Bostil would pay any price
asked for a horse.

Across the Colorado, in a high, red-walled canyon opening upon the river,
lived a poor sheep-herder and horse-trader named Creech. This man owned a
number of thoroughbreds, two of which he would not part with for all the gold
in the uplands. These racers, Blue Roan and Peg, had been captured wild on
the ranges by Ute Indians and broken to racing. They were still young and
getting faster every year. Bostil wanted them because he coveted them and
because he feared them. It would have been a terrible blow to him if any
horse ever beat the gray. But Creech laughed at all offers and taunted Bostil
with a boast that in another summer he would see a horse out in front of the
King.

To complicate matters and lead rivalry into hatred young Joel Creech, a
great horseman, but worthless in the eyes of all save his father, had been
heard to say that some day he would force a race between the King and Blue
Roan. And that threat had been taken in various ways. It alienated Bostil
beyond all hope of reconciliation. It made Lucy Bostil laugh and look sweetly
mysterious. She had no enemies and she liked everybody. It was even gossiped
by the women of Bostil's Ford that she had more than liking for the idle
Joel. But the husbands of these gossips said Lucy was only tender-hearted.
Among the riders, when they sat around their lonely camp-fires, or lounged at
the corrals of the Ford, there was speculation in regard to this race hinted
by Joel Creech. There never had been a race between the King and Blue Roan,
and there never would be, unless Joel were to ride off with Lucy. In that
case there would be the grandest race ever run on the uplands, with the odds
against Blue Roan only if he carried double. If Joel put Lucy up on the Roan
and he rode Peg there would be another story. Lucy Bostil was a slip of a
girl, born on a horse, as strong and supple as an Indian, and she could ride
like a burr sticking in a horse's mane. With Blue Roan carrying her light
weight she might run away from any one up on the King—which for Bostil
would be a double tragedy, equally in the loss of his daughter and the
beating of his best-beloved racer. But with Joel on Peg, such a race would
end in heartbreak for all concerned, for the King would outrun Peg, and that
would bring riders within gunshot.

It had always been a fascinating subject, this long-looked-for race. It
grew more so when Joel's infatuation for Lucy became known. There were fewer
riders who believed Lucy might elope with Joel than there were who believed
Joel might steal his father's horses. But all the riders who loved horses and
all the women who loved gossip were united in at least one thing, and that
was that something like a race or a romance would soon disrupt the peaceful,
sleepy tenor of Bostil's Ford.

In addition to Bostil's growing hatred for the Creeches, he had a great
fear of Cordts, the horse-thief. A fear ever restless, ever watchful. Cordts
hid back in the untrodden ways. He had secret friends among the riders of the
ranges, faithful followers back in the canyon camps, gold for the digging,
cattle by the thousand, and fast horses. He had always gotten what he wanted
—except one thing. That was a certain horse. And the horse was Sage
King.

Cordts was a bad man, a product of the early gold-fields of California and
Idaho, an outcast from that evil wave of wanderers retreating back over the
trails so madly traveled westward. He became a lord over the free ranges. But
more than all else he was a rider. He knew a horse. He was as much horse as
Bostil. Cordts rode into this wild free-range country, where he had been,
heard to say that a horse-thief was meaner than a poisoned coyote.
Nevertheless, he became a horse-thief. The passion he had conceived for the
Sage King was the passion of a man for an unattainable woman. Cordts swore
that he would never rest, that he would not die, till he owned the King. So
there was reason for Bostil's great fear.

BOSTIL went toward the house with his daughter, turning at
the door to call a last word to his riders about the care of his horses.

The house was a low, flat, wide structure, with a corridor running through
the middle, from which doors led into the adobe-walled rooms. The windows
were small openings high up, evidently intended for defense as well as light,
and they had rude wooden shutters. The floor was clay, covered everywhere by
Indian blankets. A pioneer's home it was, simple and crude, yet comfortable,
and having the rare quality peculiar to desert homes it was cool in summer
and warm in winter.

As Bostil entered with his arm round Lucy a big hound rose from the
hearth. This room was immense, running the length of the house, and it
contained a huge stone fireplace, where a kettle smoked fragrantly, and rude
home-made chairs with blanket coverings, and tables to match, and walls
covered with bridles, guns, pistols, Indian weapons and ornaments, and
trophies of the chase. In a far corner stood a work-bench, with tools upon it
and horse trappings under it. In the opposite comer a door led into the
kitchen. This room was Bostil's famous living-room, in which many things had
happened, some of which had helped make desert history and were never
mentioned by Bostil.

Bostil's sister came in from the kitchen. She was a huge person with a
severe yet motherly face. She had her hands on her hips, and she cast a
rather disapproving glance at father and daughter.

"So you're back again?" she queried, severely.

"Sure, Auntie," replied the girl, complacently.

"You ran off to get out of seeing Wetherby, didn't you?"

Lucy stared sweetly at her aunt.

"He was waiting for hours," went on the worthy woman. "I never saw a man
in such a stew.... No wonder, playing fast and loose with him the way you
do."

"I told him No!" flashed Lucy.

"But Wetherby's not the kind to take no. And I'm not satisfied to let you
mean it. Lucy Bostil, you don't know your mind an hour straight running.
You've fooled enough with these riders of your Dad's. If you're not careful
you'll marry one of them.... One of these wild riders! As bad as a Ute
Indian! ... Wetherby is young and he idolizes you. In all common sense why
don't you take him?"

"I don't care for him," replied Lucy.

"You like him as well as anybody.... John Bostil, what do you say? You
approved of Wetherby. I heard you tell him Lucy was like an unbroken colt and
that you'd—"

"Sure, I like Jim," interrupted Bostil; and he avoided Lucy's swift
look.

"Well?" demanded his sister.

Evidently Bostil found himself in a corner between two fires. He looked
sheepish, then disgusted.

"Dad!" exclaimed Lucy, reproachfully.

"See here, Jane," said Bostil, with an air of finality, "the girl is of
age to-day—an' she can do what she damn pleases!"

"That's a fine thing for you to say," retorted Aunt Jane. "Like as not
she'll be fetching that hang-dog Joel Creech up here for you to support."

"Auntie!" cried Lucy, her eyes blazing.

"Oh, child, you torment me—worry me so," said the disappointed
woman. "It's all for your sake.... Look at you, Lucy Bostil! A girl of
eighteen who comes of a family! And you riding around and going around as you
are now—in a man's clothes!"

"But, you dear old goose, I can't ride in a woman's skirt," expostulated
Lucy. "Mind you, Auntie, I can ride!"

"Lucy, if I live here forever I'd never get reconciled to a Bostil woman
in leather pants. We Bostils were somebody once, back in Missouri."

Bostil laughed. "Yes, an' if I hadn't hit the trail west we'd be starvin'
yet. Jane, you're a sentimental old fool. Let the girl alone an' reconcile
yourself to this wilderness."

Aunt Jane's eyes were wet with tears. Lucy, seeing them, ran to her and
hugged and kissed her.

"Auntie, I will promise—from to-day—to have some dignity. I've
been free as a boy in these rider clothes. As I am now the men never seem to
regard me as a girl. Somehow that's better. I can't explain, but I like it.
My dresses are what have caused all the trouble. I know that. But if I'm
grown up—if it's so tremendous—then I'll wear a dress all the
time, except just when I ride. Will that do, Auntie?"

"I don't know any more than is gossiped. That I told you. Have you ever
asked Lucy about him?"

"I sure haven't," said Bostil, bluntly.

"Well, ask her. If she tells you at all she'll tell the truth. Lucy'd
never sleep at night if she lied."

Aunt Jane returned to her housewifely tasks, leaving Bostil thoughtfully
stroking the hound and watching the fire. Presently Lucy returned—a
different Lucy—one that did not rouse his rider's pride, but thrilled
his father's heart. She had been a slim, lithe, supple, disheveled boy,
breathing the wild spirit of the open and the horse she rode. She was now a
girl in the graceful roundness of her slender form, with hair the gold of the
sage at sunset, and eyes the blue of the deep haze of distance, and lips the
sweet red of the upland rose. And all about her seemed different.

"Lucy—you look—like—like she used to be," said Bostil,
unsteadily.

"My mother!" murmured Lucy.

But these two, so keen, so strong, so alive, did not abide long with sad
memories.

"Lucy, I want to ask you somethin'," said Bostil, presently. "What about
this young Joel Creech?"

Lucy started as if suddenly recalled, then she laughed merrily. "Dad, you
old fox, did you see him ride out after me?"

"We're talking about Joel Creech. Lately he has done some queer things.
To-day, for instance. I thought I gave him the slip. But he must have been
watching. Anyway, to my surprise he showed up on Peg. He doesn't often get
Peg across the river. He said the feed was getting scarce over there. I was
dying to race Buckles against Peg, but I remembered you wouldn't like
that."

"I should say not," said Bostil, darkly.

"Well, Joel caught up to me—and he wasn't nice at all. He was worse
to-day. We quarreled. I said I'd bet he'd never follow me again and he said
he'd bet he would. Then he got sulky and hung back. I rode away, glad to be
rid of him, and I climbed to a favorite place of mine. On my way home I saw
Peg grazing on the rim of the creek, near that big spring-hole where the
water's so deep and clear. And what do you think? There was Joel's head above
the water. I remembered in our quarrel I had told him to go wash his dirty
face. He was doing it. I had to laugh. When he saw me—he—then
—then he—" Lucy faltered, blushing with anger and shame.

"Well, what then?" demanded Bostil, quietly.

"He called, 'Hey, Luce—take off your clothes and come in for a
swim!'"

Bostil swore.

"I tell you I was mad," continued Lucy, "and just as surprised. That was
one of the queer things. But never before had he dared to—to-"

"Insult you. Then what 'd you do?" interrupted Bostil, curiously.

"I yelled, 'I'll fix you, Joel Creech!'... His clothes were in a pile on
the bank. At first I thought I'd throw them in the water, but when I got to
them I thought of something better. I took up all but his shoes, for I
remembered the ten miles of rock and cactus between him and home, and I
climbed up on Buckles. Joel screamed and swore something fearful. But I
didn't look back. And Peg, you know—maybe you don't know—but Peg
is fond of me, and he followed me, straddling his bridle all the way in. I
dropped Joel's clothes down the ridge a ways, right in the trail, so he can't
miss them. And that's all.... Dad, was it—was it very bad?"

"Bad! Why, you ought to have thrown your gun on him. At least bounced a
rock off his head! But say, Lucy, after all, maybe you've done enough. I
guess you never thought of it."

"What?"

"The sun is hot to-day. Hot! An' if Joel's as crazy an' mad as you say
he'll not have sense enough to stay in the water or shade till the sun's gone
down. An' if he tackles that ten miles before he'll sunburn himself within an
inch of his life."

"Sunburn? Oh, Dad! I'm sorry," burst out Lucy, contritely. "I never
thought of that. I'll ride back with his clothes."

"You will not," said Bostil.

"Let me send some one, then," she entreated.

"Girl, haven't you the nerve to play your own game? Let Creech get his
lesson. He deserves it.... An' now, Lucy, I've two more questions to
ask."

"Lucy, can't you be satisfied an' happy with your mustangs? You've got a
dozen. You can have any others on the range. Buckles ain't safe for you to
ride."

Bostil was notably the most generous of men, the kindest of fathers. It
was an indication of his strange obsession, in regard to horses, that he
never would see that Lucy was teasing him. As far as horses were concerned he
lacked a sense of humor. Anything connected with his horses was of intense
interest.

"I'd dearly love to own Plume," said Lucy, demurely.

Bostil had grown red in the face and now he was on the rack. The monstrous
selfishness of a rider who had been supreme in his day could not be
changed.

"Girl, I—I thought you hadn't no use for Plume," he stammered.

"I haven't—the jade! She threw me once. I've never forgiven her ...
.Dad, I'm only teasing you. Don't I know you couldn't give one of those
racers away? You couldn't!"

"Lucy, I reckon you're right," Bostil burst out in immense relief.

"Dad, I'll bet if Cordts gets me and holds me as ransom for the King
—as he's threatened—you'll let him have me!"

"Lucy, now thet ain't funny!" complained the father.

"Dear Dad, keep your old racers! But, remember, I'm my father's daughter.
I can love a horse, too. Oh, if I ever get the one I want to love! A wild
horse—a desert stallion—pure Arabian—broken right by an
Indian! If I ever get him, Dad, you look out! For I'll run away from Sarch
and Ben—and I'll beat the King!"

The hamlet of Bostil's Ford had a singular situation, though, considering
the wonderful nature of that desert country, it was not exceptional. It lay
under the protecting red bluff that only Lucy Bostil cared to climb. A
hard-trodden road wound down through rough breaks in the canyon wall to the
river. Bostil's house, at the head of the village, looked in the opposite
direction, down the sage slope that widened like a colossal fan. There was
one wide street bordered by cottonwoods and cabins, and a number of gardens
and orchards, beginning to burst into green and pink and white. A brook ran
out of a ravine in the huge bluff, and from this led irrigation ditches. The
red earth seemed to blossom at the touch of water.

The place resembled an Indian encampment—quiet, sleepy, colorful,
with the tiny-streams of water running everywhere, and lazy columns of blue
wood-smoke rising. Bostil's Ford was the opposite of a busy village, yet its
few inhabitants, as a whole, were prosperous. The wants of pioneers were few.
Perhaps once a month the big, clumsy flatboat was rowed across the river with
horses or cattle or sheep. And the season was now close at hand when for
weeks, sometimes months, the river was unfordable. There were a score of
permanent families, a host of merry, sturdy children, a number of idle young
men, and only one girl—Lucy Bostil. But the village always had
transient inhabitants—friendly Utes and Navajos in to trade, and
sheep-herders with a scraggy, woolly flock, and travelers of the strange
religious sect identified with Utah going on into the wilderness. Then there
were always riders passing to and fro, and sometimes unknown ones regarded
with caution. Horse-thieves sometimes boldly rode in, and sometimes were able
to sell or trade. In the matter of horse-dealing Bostil's Ford was as bold as
the thieves.

Old Brackton, a man of varied Western experience, kept the one store,
which was tavern, trading-post, freighter's headquarters, blacksmith's shop,
and any thing else needful. Brackton employed riders, teamsters, sometimes
Indians, to freight supplies in once a month from Durango. And that was over
two hundred miles away. Sometimes the supplies did not arrive on time—
occasionally not at all. News from the outside world, except that elicited
from the taciturn travelers marching into Utah, drifted in at intervals. But
it was not missed. These wilderness spirits were the forerunners of a great,
movement, and as such were big, strong, stern, sufficient unto themselves.
Life there was made possible by horses. The distant future, that looked
bright to far-seeing men, must be and could only be fulfilled through the
endurance and faithfulness of horses. And then, from these men, horses
received the meed due them, and the love they were truly worth. The Navajo
was a nomad horseman, an Arab of the Painted Desert, and the Ute Indian was
close to him. It was they who developed the white riders of the uplands as
well as the wild-horse wrangler or hunter.

Brackton's ramshackle establishment stood down at the end of the village
street. There was not a sawed board in all that structure, and some of the
pine logs showed how they had been dropped from the bluff. Brackton, a little
old gray man, with scant beard, and eyes like those of a bird, came briskly
out to meet an incoming freighter. The wagon was minus a hind wheel, but the
teamster had come in on three wheels and a pole. The sweaty, dust-caked,
weary, thin-ribbed mustangs, and the gray-and-red-stained wagon, and the huge
jumble of dusty packs, showed something of what the journey had been.

"Hi thar, Red Wilson, you air some late gettin' in," greeted old
Brackton.

Red Wilson had red eyes from fighting the flying sand, and red dust pasted
in his scraggy beard, and as he gave his belt an upward hitch little red
clouds flew from his gun-sheath.

"Yep. An' I left a wheel an' part of the load on the trail," he said.

With him were Indians who began to unhitch the teams. Riders lounging in
the shade greeted Wilson and inquired for news. The teamster replied that
travel was dry, the water-holes were dry, and he was dry. And his reply gave
both concern and amusement.

Water and grass, next to horses, were the stock subject of all riders.

"It's got oncommon hot early," said one.

"Yes, an' them northeast winds—hard this spring," said another.

"No snow on the uplands."

"Holley seen a dry spell comin'. Wal, we can drift along without
freighters. There's grass an' water enough here, even if it doesn't
rain."

"Sure, but there ain't none across the river."

"Never was, in early season. An' if there was it'd be sheeped off."

"Creech'll be fetchin' his hosses across soon, I reckon."

"You bet he will. He's trainin' for the races next month."

"An' when air they comin' off?"

"You got me. Mebbe Van knows."

Some one prodded a sleepy rider who lay all his splendid lithe length, hat
over his eyes. Then he sat up and blinked, a lean-faced, gray-eyed fellow,
half good-natured and half resentful.

"Did somebody punch me?"

"Naw, you got nightmare! Say, Van, when will the races come off?"

"Huh! An, you woke me for thet?... Bostil says in a few weeks, soon as he
hears from the Indians. Plans to have eight hundred Indians here, an' the
biggest purses an' best races ever had at the Ford."

"You'll ride the King again?"

"Reckon so. But Bostil is kickin' because I'm heavier than I was," replied
the rider.

"You're skin an' bones at thet."

"Mebbe you'll need to work a little off, Van. Some one said Creech's Blue
Roan was comin' fast this year."

"Bill, your mind ain't operatin'," replied Van, scornfully. "Didn't I beat
Creech's hosses last year without the King turnin' a hair?"

"Not if I recollect, you didn't. The Blue Roan wasn't runnin'."

Then they argued, after the manner of friendly riders, but all earnest, an
eloquent in their convictions. The prevailing opinion was that Creech's horse
had a chance, depending upon condition and luck.

The argument shifted upon the arrival of two new-comers, leading mustangs
and apparently talking trade. It was manifest that these arrivals were not
loath to get the opinions of others.

"Van, there's a hoss!" exclaimed one.

"No, he ain't," replied Van.

And that diverse judgment appeared to be characteristic throughout. The
strange thing was that Macomber, the rancher, had already traded his mustang
and money to boot for the sorrel. The deal, whether wise or not, had been
consummated. Brackton came out with Red Wilson, and they had to have their
say.

"Wal, durned if some of you fellers ain't kind an' complimentary,"
remarked Macomber, scratching his head. "But then every feller can't have
hoss sense." Then, looking up to see Lucy Bostil coming along the road, he
brightened as if with inspiration.

Lucy was at home among them, and the shy eyes of the younger riders,
especially Van, were nothing if not revealing. She greeted them with a bright
smile, and when she saw Brackton she burst out:

"'Deed it did, Lucy; an' many more happy ones to you!" he replied,
delighted in her delight. "But it's too heavy for you. I'll send it up
—or mebbe one of the boys—"

Five riders in unison eagerly offered their services and looked as if each
had spoken first. Then Macomber addressed her:

"Miss Lucy, you see this here sorrel?"

"Ah! the same lazy crowd and the same old story—a horse trade!"
laughed Lucy.

"There's a little difference of opinion," said Macomber, politely
indicating the riders. "Now, Miss Lucy, we-all know you're a judge of a hoss.
And as good as thet you tell the truth. Thet ain't in some hoss-traders I
know.... What do you think of this mustang?"

Macomber had eyes of enthusiasm for his latest acquisition, but some of
the cock-sureness had been knocked out of him by the blunt riders.

"Macomber, aren't you a great one to talk?" queried Lucy, severely.
"Didn't you get around Dad and trade him an old, blind, knock-kneed bag of
bones for a perfectly good pony—one I liked to ride?"

The riders shouted with laughter while the rancher struggled with
confusion.

"'Pon my word, Miss Lucy, I'm surprised you could think thet of such an
old friend of yours—an' your Dad's, too. I'm hopin' he doesn't side
altogether with you."

"Dad and I never agree about a horse. He thinks he got the best of you.
But you know, Macomber, what a horse-thief you are. Worse than Cordts!"

"Wal, if I got the best of Bostil I'm willin' to be thought bad. I'm the
first feller to take him in.... An' now, Miss Lucy, look over my sorrel."

Lucy Bostil did indeed have an eye for a horse. She walked straight up to
the wild, shaggy mustang with a confidence born of intuition and experience,
and reached a hand for his head, not slowly, nor yet swiftly. The mustang
looked as if he was about to jump, but he did not. His eyes showed that he
was not used to women.

"He's not well broken," said Lucy. "Some Navajo has beaten his head in
breaking him."

Then she carefully studied the mustang point by point.

"He's deceiving at first because he's good to look at," said Lucy. "But I
wouldn't own him. A saddle will turn on him. He's not vicious, but he'll
never get over his scare. He's narrow between the eyes—a bad sign. His
ears are stiff—and too close. I don't see anything more wrong with
him."

"You seen enough," declared Macomber. "An' so you wouldn't own him?"

"You couldn't make me a present of him—even on my birthday."

"Wal, now I'm sorry, for I was thinkin' of thet," replied Macomber,
ruefully. It was plain that the sorrel had fallen irremediably in his
estimation.

"Macomber, I often tell Dad all you horse-traders get your deserts now and
then. It's vanity and desire to beat the other man that's your downfall."

Lucy went away, with Van shouldering her box, leaving Macomber trying to
return the banter of the riders. The good-natured raillery was interrupted by
a sharp word from one of them.

"Look! Darn me if thet ain't a naked Indian comin'!"

The riders whirled to see an apparently nude savage approaching, almost on
a run.

"Take a shot at thet, Bill," said another rider. "Miss Lucy might see
—No, she's out of sight. But, mebbe some other woman is around."

"Hold on, Bill," called Macomber. "You never saw an Indian run like
thet."

Some of the riders swore, others laughed, and all suddenly became keen
with interest.

"Sure his face is white, if his body's red!"

The strange figure neared them. It was indeed red up to the face, which
seemed white in contrast. Yet only in general shape and action did it
resemble a man.

"Damned if it ain't Joel Creech!" sang out Bill Stark.

The other riders accorded their wondering assent.

"Gone crazy, sure!"

"I always seen it comin'."

"Say, but ain't he wild? Foamin' at the mouth like a winded hoss!"

Young Creech was headed down the road toward the ford across which he had
to go to reach home. He saw the curious group, slowed his pace, and halted.
His face seemed convulsed with rage and pain and fatigue. His body, even to
his hands, was incased in a thick, heavy coating of red adobe that had caked
hard.

"Lucy, I never heard the beat of it.... Joel's smarter in some ways than
we thought, an' crazier in others. He had the sun figgered, but what'd he
want to run through town for? Why, never in my life have I seen such tickled
riders."

"Dad!" almost screamed Lucy. "What did Joel do?"

"Wal, I see it this way. He couldn't or wouldn't wait for sundown. An' he
wasn't hankerin' to be burned. So he wallows in a 'dobe mud-hole an' covers
himself thick with mud. You know that 'dobe mud! Then he starts home. But he
hadn't figgered on the 'dobe gettin' hard, which it did—harder 'n rock.
An' thet must have hurt more 'n sunburn. Late this afternoon he came runnin'
down the road, yellin' thet he was dyin'. The boys had conniption fits. Joel
ain't over-liked, you know, an' here they had one on him. Mebbe they didn't
try hard to clean him off. But the fact is not for hours did they get thet
'dobe off him. They washed an' scrubbed an' curried him, while he yelled an'
cussed. Finally they peeled it off, with his skin I guess. He was raw. an'
they say, the maddest feller ever seen in Bostil's Ford!"

Lucy was struggling between fear and mirth. She did not look sorry. "Oh!
Oh! Oh, Dad!"

"Wasn't it great, Lucy?"

"But what—will he—do?" choked Lucy.

"Lord only knows. Thet worries me some. Because he never said a word about
how he come to lose his clothes or why he had the 'dobe on him. An' sure I
never told. Nobody knows but us."

"Dad, hell do something terrible to me!" cried Lucy, aghast at her
premonition

THE days did not pass swiftly at Bostil's Ford. And except
in winter, and during the spring sand-storms, the lagging time passed
pleasantly. Lucy rode every day, sometimes with Van, and sometimes alone. She
was not over-keen about riding with Van—first, because he was in love
with her; and secondly, in spite of that, she could not beat him when he rode
the King. They were training Bostil's horses for the much-anticipated
races.

At last word arrived from the Utes and Navajos that they accepted Bostil's
invitation and would come in force, which meant, according to Holley and
other old riders, that the Indians would attend about eight hundred
strong.

"Thet old chief, Hawk, is comin'," Holley informed Bostil. "He hasn't been
here fer several years. Recollect thet bunch of colts he had? They're bosses,
not mustangs.... So you look out, Bostil!"

No rider or rancher or sheepman, in fact, no one, ever lost a chance to
warn Bostil. Some of it was in fun, but most of it was earnest. The nature of
events was that sooner or later a horse would beat the King. Bostil knew that
as well as anybody, though he would not admit it. Holley's hint made Bostil
look worried. Most of Bostil's gray hairs might have been traced to his years
of worry about horses.

The day he received word from the Indians he sent for Brackton, Williams,
Muncie, and Creech to come to his house that night. These men, with Bostil,
had for years formed in a way a club, which gave the Ford distinction. Creech
was no longer a friend of Bostil's, but Bostil had always been fair-minded,
and now he did not allow his animosities to influence him. Holley, the
veteran rider, made the sixth member of the club.

Bostil had a cedar log blazing cheerily in the wide fireplace, for these
early spring nights in the desert were cold.

Brackton was the last guest to arrive. He shuffled in without answering
the laconic greetings accorded him, and his usually mild eyes seemed keen and
hard.

"He was dead—we thought," replied Brackton, with a grim laugh. "But
he's alive again. He told me he'd been in Idaho fer two years, in the
gold-fields. Said the work was too hard, so he'd come back here. Laughed when
he said it, the little devil! I'll bet he was thinkin' of thet wagon-train of
mine he stole."

"Lord! Cordts an' Sears in camp," ejaculated Bostil, and he began to pace
the room.

"No, they're gone now," said Brackton.

"Take it easy, boss. Sit down," drawled Holley. "The King is safe, an' all
the racers. I swear to thet. Why, Cordts couldn't chop into thet log-an'-wire
corral if he an' his gang chopped all night! They hate work. Besides, Farlane
is there, an' the boys."

This reassured Bostil, and he resumed his chair. But his hand shook a
little.

"Did Cordts have anythin' to say?" he asked.

"Sure. He was friendly an' talkative," replied Brackton. "He came in just
after dark. Left a man I didn't see out with the hosses. He bought two big
packs of supplies, an' some leather stuff, an', of course, ammunition. Then
some whisky. Had plenty of gold an' wouldn't take no change. Then while his
men, except Sears, was carryin' out the stuff, he talked."

"Go on. Tell me," said Bostil.

"Wal, he'd been out north of Durango an' fetched news. There's wild talk
back there of a railroad goin' to be built some day, joinin' east an' west.
It's interestin', but no sense to it. How could they build a railroad through
thet country?"

"Then Cordts said water an' grass was peterin' out back on the trail, same
as Red Wilson said last week. Finally he asked, 'How's my friend Bostil?' I
told him you was well. He looked kind of thoughtful then, an' I knew what was
comin'.... 'How's the King?' 'Grand' I told him—'grand.' 'When is them
races comin' off?' I said we hadn't planned the time yet, but it would be
soon—inside of a month or two. 'Brackton,' he said, sharp-like, 'is
Bostil goin' to pull a gun on me at sight?' 'Reckon he is,' I told him. 'Wal,
I'm not powerful glad to know thet.... I hear Creech's blue hoss will race
the King this time. How about it?' 'Sure an' certain this year. I've Creech's
an' Bostil's word for thet.' Cordts put his hand on my shoulder. You ought to
've seen his eyes!... 'I want to see thet race.... I'm goin' to.' 'Wal,' I
said, 'you'll have to stop bein'—You'll need to change your bizness.'
Then, Bostil, what do you think? Cordts was sort of eager an' wild. He said
thet was a race he jest couldn't miss. He swore he wouldn't turn a trick or
let a man of his gang stir a hand till after thet race, if you'd let him
come."

A light flitted across Bostil's face.

"I know how Cordts feels," he said.

"Wal, it's a queer deal," went on Brackton. "Fer a long time you've meant
to draw on Cordts when you meet. We all know thet."

"Yes, I'll kill him!" The light left Bostil's face. His voice sounded
differently. His mouth opened, drooped strangely at the corners, then shut in
a grim, tense line. Bostil had killed more than one man. The memory, no
doubt, was haunting and ghastly.

"Cordts seemed to think his word was guarantee of his good faith. He said
he'd send an Indian in here to find out if he can come to the races. I
reckon, Bostil, thet it wouldn't hurt none to let him come. An' hold your gun
hand fer the time he swears he'll be honest. Queer deal, ain't it, men? A
hoss-thief turnin' honest jest to see a race! Beats me! Bostil, it's a cheap
way to get at least a little honesty from Cordts. An' refusin' might rile him
bad. When all's said Cordts ain't as bad as he could be."

"I'll let him come," replied Bostil, breathing deep. "But it'll be hard to
see him, rememberin' how he's robbed me, an' what he's threatened. An' I
ain't lettin' him come to bribe a few weeks' decency from him. I'm doin' it
for only one reason.... Because I know how he loves the King—how he
wants to see the King run away from the field thet day! Thet's why!"

There was a moment of silence, during which all turned to Creech. He was a
stalwart man, no longer young, with a lined face, deep-set, troubled eyes,
and white, thin beard.

"Bostil, if Cordts loves the King thet well, he's in fer heartbreak," said
Creech, with a ring in his voice.

Down crashed Bostil's heavy boots and fire flamed in his gaze. The other
men laughed, and Brackton interposed:

"Dad!... Last Tuesday was my birthday—the day you did not
give me a horse!"

"Aw, so it was," rejoined Bostil, confused at her reproach. "An' thet date
was—let's see—April sixth.... Then this is April thirteenth. Much
obliged, Lucy. Run back to your aunt now. This hoss talk won't interest
you."

Lucy tossed her head. "I'll bet I'll have to straighten out the whole
thing." Then with a laugh she disappeared.

"Three days beginnin—say June first. June first—second, an'
third. How about thet for the races?"

Everybody agreed, and Bostil laboriously wrote that down. Then they
planned the details. Purses and prizes, largely donated by Bostil and Muncie,
the rich members of the community, were recorded. The old rules were adhered
to. Any rider or any Indian could enter any horse in any race, or as many
horses as he liked in as many races. But by winning one race he excluded
himself from the others. Bostil argued for a certain weight in riders, but
the others ruled out this suggestion. Special races were arranged for the
Indians, with saddles, bridles, blankets, guns as prizes.

All this appeared of absorbing interest to Bostil. He perspired freely.
There was a gleam in his eye, betraying excitement. When it came to arranging
the details of the big race between the high-class racers, then he grew
intense and harder to deal with. Many points had to go by vote. Muncie and
Williams both had fleet horses to enter in this race; Holley had one; Creech
had two; there were sure to be several Indians enter fast mustangs; and
Bostil had the King and four others to choose from. Bostil held out
stubbornly for a long race. It was well known that Sage King was unbeatable
in a long race. If there were any chance to beat him it must be at short
distance. The vote went against Bostil, much to his chagrin, and the great
race was set down for two miles.

"But two miles!... Two miles!" he kept repeating. "Thet's Blue Roan's
distance. Thet's his distance. An' it ain't fair to the King!"

His guests, excepting Creech, argued with him, explained, reasoned, showed
him that it was fair to all concerned. Bostil finally acquiesced, but he was
not happy. The plain fact was that he was frightened.

When the men were departing Bostil called Creech back into the
sitting-room. Creech appeared surprised, yet it was evident that he would
have been glad to make friends with Bostil.

"What'll you take for the roan?" Bostil asked, tersely,' as if he had
never asked that before.

"Bostil, didn't we thresh thet out before—an' FELL out over it?"
queried Creech, with a deprecating spread of his hands.

"Wal, we can fall in again, if you'll sell or trade the hoss."

"I'm sorry, but I can't."

"You need money an' hosses, don't you?" demanded Bostil, brutally. He had
no conscience in a matter of horse-dealing.

Creech looked as if he had not heard aright. Bostil repeated the
offer.

"No," replied Creech.

"I'll make it a thousand an' throw Plume in with Sarch," flashed
Bostil.

"No!" Creech turned pale and swallowed hard.

"Two thousand an' Dusty Ben along with the others?" This was an unheard-of
price to pay for any horse. Creech saw that Bostil was desperate. It was an
almost overpowering temptation. Evidently Creech resisted it only by applying
all his mind to the thought of his clean-limbed, soft-eyed, noble horse.

Bostil did not give Creech time to speak. "Twenty-five hundred an' Two
Face along with the rest!"

"My God, Bostil—stop it! I can't part with Blue Roan. You're
rich an' you've no heart. Thet I always knew. At least to me you never had,
since I owned them two racers. Didn't I beg you, a little time back, to lend
me a few hundred? To meet thet debt? An' you wouldn't, unless I'd sell the
hosses. An' I had to lose my sheep. Now I'm a poor man—gettin' poorer
all the time. But I won't sell or trade Blue Roan, not for all you've
got!"

Creech seemed to gain strength with his speech and passion with the
strength. His eyes glinted at the hard, paling face of his rival. He raised a
clenching fist.

"An' by G—d, I'm goin' to win thet race!"

During that week Lucy had heard many things about Joel Creech, and some of
them were disquieting.

Some rider had not only found Joel's clothes on the trail, but he had
recognized the track of the horse Lucy rode, and at once connected her with
the singular discovery. Coupling that with Joel's appearance in the village
incased in a heaving armor of adobe, the riders guessed pretty close to the
truth. For them the joke was tremendous. And Joel Creech was exceedingly
sensitive to ridicule. The riders made life unbearable for him. They had fun
out of it as long as Joel showed signs of taking the joke manfully, which was
not long, and then his resentment won their contempt. That led to sarcasm on
their part and bitter anger on his. It came to Lucy's ears that Joel began to
act and talk strangely. She found out that the rider Van had knocked Joel
down in Brackton's store and had kicked a gun out of his hand. Van laughed
off the rumor and Brackton gave her no satisfaction. Moreover, she heard no
other rumors. The channels of gossip had suddenly closed to her. Bostil, when
questioned by Lucy, swore in a way that amazed her, and all he told her was
to leave Creech alone. Finally, when Muncie discharged Joel, who worked now
and then, Lucy realized that something was wrong with Joel and that she was
to blame for it.

She grew worried and anxious and sorry, but she held her peace, and
determined to find out for herself what was wrong. Every day when she rode
out into the sage she expected to meet him, or at least see him somewhere;
nevertheless days went by and there was no sign of him.

One afternoon she saw some Indians driving sheep down the river road
toward the ford, and, acting upon impulse, she turned her horse after
them.

Lucy seldom went down the river road. Riding down and up was merely work,
and a horse has as little liking for it as she had. Usually it was a hot,
dusty trip, and the great, dark, overhanging walls had a depressing effect,
upon her. She always felt awe at the gloomy canyon and fear at the strange,
murmuring red river. But she started down this afternoon in the hope of
meeting Joel. She had a hazy idea of telling him she was sorry for what she
had done, and of asking him to forget it and pay no more heed to the
riders.

The sheep raised a dust-cloud in the sandy wash where the road wound down,
and Lucy hung back to let them get farther ahead. Gradually the tiny roar of
pattering hoofs and the blended bleating and baaing died away. The
dust-cloud, however, hung over the head of the ravine, and Lucy had to force
Sarchedon through it. Sarchedon did not mind sand and dust, but he surely
hated the smell of sheep. Lucy seldom put a spur to Sarchedon; still, she
gave him a lash with her quirt, and then he went on obediently, if
disgustedly. He carried his head like a horse that wondered why his mistress
preferred to drive him down into an unpleasant hole when she might have been
cutting the sweet, cool sage wind up on the slope.

The wash, with its sand and clay walls, dropped into a gulch, and there
was an end of green growths. The road led down over solid rock. Gradually the
rims of the gorge rose, shutting out the light and the cliffs. It was a
winding road and one not safe to tarry on in a stormy season. Lucy had seen
boulders weighing a ton go booming down that gorge during one of the sudden
fierce desert storms, when a torrent of water and mud and stone went plunging
on to the river. The ride through here was short, though slow. Lucy always
had time to adjust her faculties for the overpowering contrast these lower
regions presented. Long before she reached the end of the gorge she heard the
sullen thunder of the river. The river was low, too, for otherwise there
would have been a deafening roar.

Presently she came out upon a lower branch of the canyon, into a great
red-walled space, with the river still a thousand feet below, and the cliffs
towering as high above her. The road led down along this rim where to the
left all was open, across to the split and peaked wall opposite. The river
appeared to sweep round a bold, bulging comer a mile above. It was a wide,
swift, muddy, turbulent stream. A great bar of sand stretched out from the
shore. Beyond it, through the mouth of an intersecting canyon, could be seen
a clump of cottonwoods and willows that marked the home of the Creeches. Lucy
could not see the shore nearest her, as it was almost directly under her.
Besides, in this narrow road, on a spirited horse, she was not inclined to
watch the scenery. She hurried Sarchedon down and down, under the overhanging
brows of rock, to where the rim sloped out and failed. Here was a half-acre
of sand, with a few scant willows, set down seemingly in a dent at the base
of the giant, beetling cliffs. The place was light, though the light seemed a
kind of veiled red, and to Lucy always ghastly. She could not have been
joyous with that river moaning before her, even if it had been up on a level,
in the clear and open day. As a little girl eight years old she had conceived
a terror and hatred of this huge, jagged rent so full of red haze and purple
smoke and the thunder of rushing waters. And she had never wholly outgrown
it. The joy of the sun and wind, the rapture in the boundless open, the
sweetness in the sage—these were not possible here. Something mighty
and ponderous, heavy as those colossal cliffs, weighted down her spirit. The
voice of the river drove out any dream. Here was the incessant frowning
presence of destructive forces of nature. And the ford was associated with
catastrophe—to sheep, to horses and to men.

Lucy rode across the bar to the shore where the Indians were loading the
sheep into an immense rude flatboat. As the sheep were frightened, the
loading was no easy task. Their bleating could be heard above the roar of the
river. Bostil's boatmen, Shugrue and Somers, stood knee-deep in the quicksand
of the bar, and their efforts to keep free-footed were as strenuous as their
handling of the sheep. Presently the flock was all crowded on board, the
Indians followed, and then the boatmen slid the unwieldy craft off the
sand-bar. Then, each manning a clumsy oar, they pulled up-stream. Along shore
were whirling, slow eddies, and there rowing was possible. Out in that swift
current it would have been folly to try to contend with it, let alone make
progress. The method of crossing was to row up along the shore as far as a
great cape of rock jutting out, and there make into the current, and while
drifting down pull hard to reach the landing opposite. Heavily laden as the
boat was, the chances were not wholly in favor of a successful crossing.

Lucy watched the slow, laborious struggle of the boatmen with the heavy
oars until she suddenly remembered the object of her visit down to the ford.
She appeared to be alone on her side of the river. At the landing opposite,
however, were two men; and presently Lucy recognized Joel Creel and his
father. A second glance showed Indians with burros, evidently waiting for the
boat. Joel Creech jumped into a skiff and shoved off. The elder man, judging
by his motions, seemed to be trying to prevent his son from leaving the
shore. But Joel began to row up-stream, keeping close to the shore. Lucy
watched him. No doubt he had seen her and was coming across. Either the
prospect of meeting him or the idea of meeting him there in the place where
she was never herself made her want to turn at once and ride back home. But
her stubborn sense of fairness overruled that. She would hold her ground
solely in the hope of persuading Joel to be reasonable. She saw the big
flatboat sweep into line of sight at the same time Joel turned into the
current. But while the larger craft drifted slowly the other way, the smaller
one came swiftly down and across. Joel swept out of the current into the
eddy, rowed across that, and slid the skiff up on the sand-bar. Then he
stepped out. He was bareheaded and barefooted, but it was not that which made
him seem a stranger to Lucy.

"Are you lookin' fer me?" he shouted.

Lucy waved a hand for him to come up.

Then he approached. He was a tall, lean young man, stoop-shouldered and
bow-legged from much riding, with sallow, freckled face, a thin fuzz of
beard, weak mouth and chin, and eyes remarkable for their small size and
piercing quality and different color. For one was gray and the other was
hazel. There was no scar on his face, but the irregularity of his features
reminded one who knew that he had once been kicked in the face by a
horse.

Creech came up hurriedly, in an eager, wild way that made Lucy suddenly
pity him. He did not seem to remember that the stallion had an antipathy for
him. But Lucy, if she had forgotten, would have been reminded by Sarchedon's
action.

"Look out, Joel!" she called, and she gave the black's head a jerk.
Sarchedon went up with a snort and came down pounding the sand. Quick as an
Indian Lucy was out of the saddle.

"Lemme your quirt," said Joel, showing his teeth like a wolf.

"No. I wouldn't let you hit Sarch. You beat him once, and he's never
forgotten," replied Lucy.

The eye of the horse and the man met and clashed, and there was a hostile
tension in their attitudes. Then Lucy dropped the bridle and drew Joel over
to a huge drift-log, half buried in the sand. Here she sat down, but Joel
remained standing. His gaze was now all the stranger for its wistfulness.
Lucy was quick to catch a subtle difference in him, but she could not tell
wherein it lay.

"What'd you want?" asked Joel.

"I've heard a lot of things, Joel," replied Lucy, trying to think of just
what she wanted to say.

"Reckon you have," said Joel, dejectedly, and then he sat down on the log
and dug holes in the sand with his bare feet.

Lucy had never before seen him look tired, and it seemed that some of the
healthy brown of his cheeks had thinned out. Then Lucy told him, guardedly, a
few of the rumors she had heard.

"All thet you say is nothin' to what's happened," he replied, bitterly.
"Them riders mocked the life an' soul out of me."

"But, Joel, you shouldn't be so—so touchy," said Lucy, earnestly.
"After all, the joke WAS on you. Why didn't you take it like a man?"

"But they knew you stole my clothes," he protested.

"Suppose they, did. That wasn't much to care about. If you hadn't taken it
so hard they'd have let up on you."

"Mebbe I might have stood that. But they taunted me with bein'—
loony about you."

Joel spoke huskily. There was no doubt that he had been deeply hurt. Lucy
saw tears in his eyes, and her first impulse was to put a hand on his and
tell him how sorry she was. But she desisted. She did not feel at her ease
with Joel.

She believed him, and saw the unfortunate circumstance more than ever her
fault. "I'm sorry, Joel. I'm much to blame. I shouldn't have lost my temper
and played that trick with your clothes.... If you'd only had sense enough to
stay out till after dark! But no use crying over spilt milk. Now, if you'll
do your share I'll do mine. I'll tell the boys I was to blame. I'll persuade
them to let you alone. I'll go to Muncie—"

"No you won't go cryin' small fer me!" blurted out Joel.

Lucy was surprised to see pride in him. "Joel, I'll not make it appear
—"

"You'll not say one word about me to any one," he went on, with the blood
beginning to darken his face. And now he faced her. How strange the blaze in
his differently colored eyes! "Lucy Bostil, there's been thet done an' said
to me which I'll never forgive. I'm no good in Bostil's Ford. Mebbe I never
was much. But I could get a job when I wanted it an' credit when I needed it.
Now I can't get nothin'. I'm no good!... I'm no good! An' it's your
fault!"

"Oh, Joel, what can I do?" cried Lucy.

"I reckon there's only one way you can square me," he replied, suddenly
growing pale. But his eyes were like flint. He certainly looked to be in
possession of all his wits.

Manifestly he was laboring under strong suppressed agitation. That moment
was the last of real strength and dignity ever shown by Joel Creech.

"But, Joel, I can't marry you—even if I am to blame for your ruin,"
said Lucy, simply.

"Why?"

"Because I don't love you."

"I reckon thet won't make any difference, if you don't love some one
else."

Lucy gazed blankly at him. He began to shake, and his eyes grew wild. She
rose from the log.

"Do you love anybody else?" he asked, passionately.

"None of your business!" retorted Lucy. Then, at a strange darkening of
his face, an aspect unfamiliar to her, she grew suddenly frightened.

"It's Van!" he said, thickly.

"Joel, you're a fool!"

That only infuriated him.

"So they all say. An' they got my old man believin' it, too. Mebbe I am
.... But I'm a-goin' to kill Van!"

"No! No! Joel, what are you saying? I don't love Van. I don't care any
more for him than for any other rider—or—or you."

"Thet's a lie, Lucy Bostil!"

"How dare you say I lie?" demanded Lucy. "I've a mind to turn my back on
you. I'm trying to make up for my blunder and you—you insult me!"

"You talk sweet... but talk isn't enough. You made me no-good.... Will you
marry me?"

"I will not!" And Lucy, with her blood up, could not keep contempt out of
voice and look, and she did not care. That was the first time she had ever
shown anything, approaching ridicule for Joel. The effect was remarkable.
Like a lash upon a raw wound it made him writhe; but more significant to Lucy
was the sudden convulsive working of his features and the wildness of his
eyes. Then she turned her back, not from contempt, but to hurry away from
him.

Joel did not heed her command. He was forcing her back. He talked
incoherently. One glimpse of his face added terror to Lucy's fury.

"Joel, you're out of your head!" she cried, and she began to wrench and
writhe out of his grasp. Then ensued a short, sharp struggle. Joel could not
hold Lucy, but he tore her blouse into shreds. It seemed to Lucy that he did
that savagely. She broke free from him, and he lunged at her again. With all
her strength she lashed his face with the heavy leather quirt. That staggered
him. He almost fell.

Lucy bounded to Sarchedon. In a rush she was up in the saddle. Joel was
running toward her. Blood on his face! Blood on his hands! He was not the
Joel Creech she knew.

"Stop!" cried Lucy, fiercely. "I'll run you down!"

The big black plunged at a touch of spur and came down quivering, ready to
bolt.

Creech swerved to one side. His face was lividly white except where the
bloody welts crossed it. His jaw seemed to hang loosely, making speech
difficult.

Lucy saw the utter futility of all her good intentions. Something had
snapped in Joel Creech's mind. And in hers kindness had given precedence to a
fury she did not know was in her. For the second time she touched a spur to
Sarchedon. He leaped out, flashed past Creech, and thundered up the road. It
was all Lucy could do to break his gait at the first steep rise.

THREE wild-horse hunters made camp one night beside a little
stream in the Sevier Valley, five hundred miles, as a crow flies, from
Bostil's Ford.

These hunters had a poor outfit, excepting, of course, their horses. They
were young men, rangy in build, lean and hard from life in the saddle,
bronzed like Indians, still-faced, and keen-eyed. Two of them appeared to be
tired out, and lagged at the camp-fire duties. When the meager meal was
prepared they sat, cross-legged, before a ragged tarpaulin, eating and
drinking in silence.

The sky in the west was rosy, slowly darkening. The valley floor billowed
away, ridged and cut, growing gray and purple and dark. Walls of stone, pink
with the last rays of the setting sun, inclosed the valley, stretching away
toward a long, low, black mountain range.

The place was wild, beautiful, open, with something nameless that made the
desert different from any other country. It was, perhaps, a loneliness of
vast stretches of valley and stone, clear to the eye, even after sunset. That
black mountain range, which looked close enough to ride to before dark, was a
hundred miles distant.

The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by the time the hunters
finished the meal. Then the campfire had burned low. One of the three dragged
branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire. Quickly it flared up, with
the white flame and crackle characteristic of dry cedar. The night wind had
risen, moaning through the gnarled, stunted cedars near by, and it blew the
fragrant wood-smoke into the faces of the two hunters, who seemed too tired
to move.

"Thet's one apiece, then.... Lin, come an' smoke the last pipe with
us."

The tallest of the three, he who had brought the firewood, stood in the
bright light of the blaze. He looked the born rider, light, lithe,
powerful.

"Sure, I'll smoke," he replied.

Then, presently, he accepted the pipe tendered him, and, sitting down
beside the fire, he composed himself to the enjoyment which his companions
evidently considered worthy of a decision they had reached.

"So this smokin' means you both want to turn back?" queried Lin, his sharp
gaze glancing darkly bright in the glow of the fire.

"Yep, we'll turn back. An', Lordy! the relief I feel!" replied one.

"We've been long comin' to it, Lin, an' thet was for your sake," replied
the other.

Lin slowly pulled at his pipe and blew out the smoke as if reluctant to
part with it. "Let's go on," he said, quietly.

"No. I've had all I want of chasin' thet damn wild stallion," returned
Bill, shortly.

The other spread wide his hands and bent an expostulating look upon the
one called Lin. "We're two hundred miles out," he said. "There's only a
little flour left in the bag. No coffee! Only a little salt! All the hosses
except your big Nagger are played out. We're already in strange country. An'
you know what we've heerd of this an' all to the south. It's all canyons, an'
somewheres down there is thet awful canyon none of our people ever seen. But
we've heerd of it. An awful cut-up country."

He finished with a conviction that no one could say a word against the
common sense of his argument. Lin was silent, as if impressed.

That seemed to him, evidently, a more convincing argument than his
comrade's.

"Bill is sure right, if I'm wrong, which I ain't," went on the other.
"Lin, we've trailed thet wild stallion for six weeks. Thet's the longest
chase he ever had. He's left his old range. He's cut out his band, an' left
them, one by one. We've tried every trick we know on him. An' he's too smart
for us. There's a hoss! Why, Lin, we're all but gone to the dogs chasin'
Wildfire. An' now I'm done, an' I'm glad of it."

There was another short silence, which presently Bill opened his lips to
break.

"Lin, it makes me sick to quit. I ain't denyin' thet for a long time I've
had hopes of ketchin' Wildfire. He's the grandest hoss I ever laid eyes on. I
reckon no man, onless he was an Arab, ever seen as good a one. But now,
thet's neither here nor there.... We've got to hit the back trail."

"Boys, I reckon I'll stick to Wildfire's tracks," said Lin, in the same
quiet tone.

Bill swore at him, and the other hunter grew excited and concerned.

"Lin Slone, are you gone plumb crazy over thet red hoss?"

"I—reckon," replied Slone. The working of his throat as he swallowed
could be plainly seen by his companions.

Bill looked at his ally as if to confirm some sudden understanding between
them. They took Slone's attitude gravely and they wagged their heads
doubtfully, as they might have done had Slone just acquainted them with a
hopeless and deathless passion for a woman. It was significant of the nature
of riders that they accepted his attitude and had consideration for his
feelings. For them the situation subtly changed. For weeks they had been
three wild-horse wranglers on a hard chase after a valuable stallion. They
had failed to get even close to him. They had gone to the limit of their
endurance and of the outfit, and it was time to turn back. But Slone had
conceived that strange and rare longing for a horse—a passion
understood, if not shared, by all riders. And they knew that he would catch
Wildfire or die in the attempt. From that moment their attitude toward Slone
changed as subtly as had come the knowledge of his feeling. The gravity and
gloom left their faces. It seemed they might have regretted what they had
said about the futility of catching Wildfire. They did not want Slone to see
or feel the hopelessness of his task.

"I tell you, Lin," said Bill, "your hoss Nagger's as good as when we
started."

"Aw, he's better," vouchsafed the other rider. "Nagger needed to lose some
weight. Lin, have you got an extra set of shoes for him?"

"Sure he is," replied Bill. "He ain't the first stallion I've chased off
the Sevier range. An' I know. It's a stallion thet makes for new country,
when you push him hard."

"Yep, Lin, he's sure leavin'," added the other comrade. "Why, he's
traveled a bee-line for days! I'll bet he's seen us many a time. Wildfire's
about as smart as any man. He was born wild, an' his dam was born wild, an'
there you have it. The wildest of all wild creatures—a wild stallion,
with the intelligence of a man! A grand hoss, Lin, but one thet'll be hell,
if you ever ketch him. He has killed stallions all over the Sevier range. A
wild stallion thet's a killer! I never liked him for thet. Could he be
broke?"

"Nope; you're right," replied Bill. "If you have some luck you'll get him
—mebbe. If he wears out his feet, or if you crowd him into a narrow
canyon, or ran him into a bad place where he can't get by you. Thet might
happen. An' then, with Nagger, you stand a chance. Did you ever tire thet
hoss?"

"Not yet."

"An' how fur did you ever run him without a break? Why, when we ketched
thet sorrel last year I rode Nagger myself—thirty miles, most at a hard
gallop. An' he never turned a hair!"

"I've beat thet," replied Lin. "He could run hard fifty miles—mebbe
more. Honestly, I never seen him tired yet. If only he was fast!"

"Wal, Nagger ain't so durned slow, come to think of thet," replied Bill,
with a grunt. "He's good enough for you not to want another hoss."

"Lin, you're goin' to wear out Wildfire, an' then trap him somehow—
is thet the plan?" asked the other comrade.

"I haven't any plan. I'll just trail him, like a cougar trails a
deer."

"Lin, if Wildfire gives you the slip he'll have to fly. You've got the
best eyes for tracks of any wrangler in Utah."

Slone accepted the compliment with a fleeting, doubtful smile on his dark
face. He did not reply, and no more was said by his comrades. They rolled
with backs to the fire. Slone put on more wood, for the keen wind was cold
and cutting; and then he lay down, his head in his saddle, with a goatskin
under him and a saddle-blanket over him.

All three were soon asleep. The wind whipped the sand and ashes and smoke
over the sleepers. Coyotes barked from near in darkness, and from the valley
ridge came the faint mourn of a hunting wolf. The desert night grew darker
and colder.

The Stewart brothers were wild-horse hunters for the sake of trades and
occasional sales. But Lin Slone never traded nor sold a horse he had
captured. The excitement of the game, and the lure of the desert, and the
love of a horse were what kept him at the profitless work. His type was rare
in the uplands.

These were the early days of the settlement of Utah, and only a few of the
hardiest and most adventurous pioneers had penetrated the desert in the
southern part of that vast upland. And with them came some of that wild breed
of riders to which Slone and the Stewarts belonged. Horses were really more
important and necessary than men; and this singular fact gave these lonely
riders a calling.

Before the Spaniards came there were no horses in the West. Those
explorers left or lost horses all over the southwest. Many of them were
Arabian horses of purest blood. American explorers and travelers, at the
outset of the nineteenth century, encountered countless droves of wild horses
all over the plains. Across the Grand Canyon, however, wild horses were
comparatively few in number in the early days; and these had probably come in
by way of California.

The Stewarts and Slone had no established mode of catching wild horses.
The game had not developed fast enough for that. Every chase of horse or
drove was different; and once in many attempts they met with success.

A favorite method originated by the Stewarts was to find a water-hole
frequented by the band of horses or the stallion wanted, and to build round
this hole a corral with an opening for the horses to get in. Then the hunters
would watch the trap at night, and if the horses went in to drink, a gate was
closed across the opening. Another method of the Stewarts was to trail a
coveted horse up on a mesa or highland, places which seldom had more than one
trail of ascent and descent, and there block the escape, and cut lines of
cedars, into which the quarry was ran till captured. Still another method,
discovered by accident, was to shoot a horse lightly in the neck and sting
him. This last, called creasing, was seldom successful, and for that matter
in any method ten times as many horses were killed as captured.

Lin Slone helped the Stewarts in their own way, but he had no especial
liking for their tricks. Perhaps a few remarkable captures of remarkable
horses had spoiled Slone. He was always trying what the brothers claimed to
be impossible. He was a fearless rider, but he had the fault of saving his
mount, and to kill a wild horse was a tragedy for him. He would much rather
have hunted alone, and he had been alone on the trail of the stallion
Wildfire when the Stewarts had joined him.

Lin Slone awoke next morning and rolled out of his blanket at his usual
early hour. But he was not early enough to say good-by to the Stewarts. They
were gone.

The fact surprised him and somehow relieved him. They had left him more
than his share of the outfit, and perhaps that was why they had slipped off
before dawn. They knew him well enough to know that he would not have
accepted it. Besides, perhaps they felt a little humiliation at abandoning a
chase which he chose to keep up. Anyway, they were gone, apparently without
breakfast.

The morning was clear, cool, with the air dark like that before a storm,
and in the east, over the steely wall of stone, shone a redness growing
brighter.

Slone looked away to the west, down the trail taken by his comrades, but
he saw nothing moving against that cedar-dotted waste.

"Good-by," he said, and he spoke as if he was saying good-by to more than
comrades.

"I reckon I won't see Sevier Village soon again—an' maybe never," he
soliloquized.

There was no one to regret him, unless it was old Mother Hall, who had
been kind to him on those rare occasions when he got out of the wilderness.
Still, it was with regret that he gazed away across the red valley to the
west. Slone had no home. His father and mother had been lost in the massacre
of a wagon-train by Indians, and he had been one of the few saved and brought
to Salt Lake. That had happened when he was ten years old. His life
thereafter had been hard, and but for his sturdy Texas training he might not
have survived. The last five years he had been a horse-hunter in the wild
uplands of Nevada and Utah.

Slone turned his attention to the pack of supplies. The Stewarts had
divided the flour and the parched corn equally, and unless he was greatly
mistaken they had left him most of the coffee and all of the salt.

"Now I hold that decent of Bill an' Abe," said Slone, regretfully. "But I
could have got along without it better 'n they could."

Then he swiftly set about kindling a fire and getting a meal. In the midst
of his task a sudden ruddy brightness fell around him. Lin Slone paused in
his work to look up.

The sun had risen over the eastern wall.

"Ah!" he said, and drew a deep breath.

The cold, steely, darkling sweep of desert had been transformed. It was
now a world of red earth and gold rocks and purple sage, with everywhere the
endless straggling green cedars. A breeze whipped in, making the fire roar
softly. The sun felt warm on his cheek. And at the moment he heard the
whistle of his horse.

"Good old Nagger!" he said. "I shore won't have to track you this
mornin'."

Presently he went off into the cedars to find Nagger and the mustang that
he used to carry a pack. Nagger was grazing in a little open patch among the
trees, but the pack-horse was missing. Slone seemed to know in what direction
to go to find the trail, for he came upon it very soon. The pack-horse wore
hobbles, but he belonged to the class that could cover a great deal of ground
when hobbled. Slone did not expect the horse to go far, considering that the
grass thereabouts was good. But in a wild-horse country it was not safe to
give any horse a chance. The call of his wild brethren was irresistible.
Slone, however, found the mustang standing quietly in a clump of cedars, and,
removing the hobbles, he mounted and rode back to camp. Nagger caught sight
of him and came at his call.

This horse Nagger appeared as unique in his class as Slone was rare among
riders. Nagger seemed of several colors, though black predominated. His coat
was shaggy, almost woolly, like that of a sheep. He was huge, raw-boned,
knotty, long of body and long of leg, with the head of a war charger. His
build did not suggest speed. There appeared to be something slow and
ponderous about him, similar to an elephant, with the same suggestion of
power and endurance. Slone discarded the pack-saddle and bags. The latter
were almost empty. He roped the tarpaulin on the back of the mustang, and,
making a small bundle of his few supplies, he tied that to the tarpaulin. His
blanket he used for a saddle-blanket on Nagger. Of the utensils left by the
Stewarts he chose a couple of small iron pans, with long handles. The rest he
left. In his saddle-bags he had a few extra a horseshoes, some nails, bullets
for his rifle, and a knife with a heavy blade.

"Not a rich outfit for a far country," he mused. Slone not talk very much,
and when he did he addressed Nagger and himself simultaneously. Evidently he
expected a long chase, one from which he would not return, and light as his
outfit was it would grow too heavy.

Then he mounted and rode down the gradual slope, facing the valley and the
black, bold, flat mountain to the southeast. Some few hundred yards from camp
he halted Nagger and bent over in the saddle to scrutinize the ground.

The clean-cut track of a horse showed in the bare, hard sand. The
hoof-marks were large, almost oval, perfect in shape, and manifestly they
were beautiful to Lin Slone. He gazed at them for a long time, and then he
looked across the dotted red valley up the vast ridgy steps, toward the black
plateau and beyond. It was the look that an Indian gives to a strange
country. Then Slone slipped off the saddle and knelt to scrutinize the horse
tracks. A little sand had blown into the depressions, and some of it was wet
and some of it was dry. He took his time about examining it, and he even
tried gently blowing other sand into the tracks, to compare that with what
was already there. Finally he stood up and addressed Nagger.

"Reckon we won't have to argue with Abe an' Bill this mornin'," he said,
with satisfaction. "Wildfire made that track yesterday, before sun-up.

Thereupon Slone remounted and put Nagger to a trot. The pack-horse
followed with an alacrity that showed he had no desire for loneliness.

As straight as a bee-line Wildfire had left a trail down into the floor of
the valley. He had not stopped to graze, and he had not looked for water.
Slone had hoped to find a water-hole in one of the deep washes in the red
earth, but if there had been any water there Wildfire would have scented it.
He had not had a drink for three days that Slone knew of. And Nagger had not
drunk for forty hours. Slone had a canvas water-bag hanging over the pommel,
but it was a habit of his to deny himself, as far as possible, till his horse
could drink also. Like an Indian, Slone ate and drank but little.

It took four hours of steady trotting to reach the middle and bottom of
that wide, flat valley. A network of washes cut up the whole center of it,
and they were all as dry as bleached bone. To cross these Slone had only to
keep Wildfire's trail. And it was proof of Nagger's quality that he did not
have to veer from the stallion's course.

It was hot down in the lowland. The heat struck up, reflected from the
sand. But it was a March sun, and no more than pleasant to Slone. The wind
rose, however, and blew dust and sand in the faces of horse and rider. Except
lizards, Slone did not see any living things.

Miles of low greasewood and sparse yellow sage led to the first almost
imperceptible rise of the valley floor on that side. The distant cedars
beckoned to Slone. He was not patient, because he was on the trail of
Wildfire; but, nevertheless. the hours seemed short.

Slone had no past to think about, and the future held nothing except a
horse, and so his thoughts revolved the possibilities connected with this
chase of Wildfire. The chase was hopeless in such country as he was
traversing, and if Wildfire chose to roam around valleys like this one Slone
would fail utterly. But the stallion had long ago left his band of horses,
and then, one by one his favorite consorts, and now he was alone, headed with
unerring instinct for wild, untrammeled ranges. He had been used to the pure,
cold water and the succulent grass of the cold desert uplands. Assuredly he
would not tarry in such barren lands as these.

For Slone an ever-present and growing fascination lay in Wildfire's clear,
sharply defined tracks. It was as if every hoof-mark told him something.
Once, far up the interminable ascent, he found on a ridge-top tracks showing
where Wildfire had halted and turned.

When Slone reached the cedars the sun was low down in the west. He looked
back across the fifty miles of valley to the colored cliffs and walls. He
seemed to be above them now, and the cool air, with tang of cedar and
juniper, strengthened the impression that he had climbed high.

A mile or more ahead of him rose a gray cliff with breaks in it and a line
of dark cedars or pinyons on the level rims. He believed these breaks to be
the mouths of canyons, and so it turned out. Wildfire's trail led into the
mouth of a narrow canyon with very steep and high walls. Nagger snorted his
perception of water, and the mustang whistled. Wildfire's tracks led to a
point under the wall where a spring gushed forth. There were mountain-lion
and deer tracks also, as well as those of smaller game.

Slone made camp here. The mustang was tired. But Nagger, upon taking a
long drink, rolled in the grass as if he had just begun the trip. After
eating, Slone took his rifle and went out to look for deer. But there
appeared to be none at hand. He came across many lion tracks and saw, with
apprehension, where one had taken Wildfire's trail. Wildfire had grazed up
the canyon, keeping on and on, and he was likely to go miles in a night.
Slone reflected that as small as were his own chances of getting Wildfire,
they were still better than those of a mountain-lion. Wildfire was the most
cunning of all animals—a wild stallion; his speed and endurance were
incomparable; his scent as keen as those animals that relied wholly upon
scent to warn them of danger, and as for sight, it was Slone's belief that no
hoofed creature, except the mountain-sheep used to high altitudes, could see
as far as a wild horse.

It bothered Slone a little that he was getting into a lion country. Nagger
showed nervousness, something unusual for him. Slone tied both horses with
long halters and stationed them on patches of thick grass. Then he put a
cedar stump on the fire and went to sleep. Upon awakening and going to the
spring he was somewhat chagrined to see that deer had come down to drink
early. Evidently they were numerous. A lion country was always a deer
country, for the lions followed the deer.

Slone was packed and saddled and on his way before the sun reddened the
canyon wall. He walked the horses. From time to time he saw signs of
Wildfire's consistent progress. The canyon narrowed and the walls grew lower
and the grass increased. There was a decided ascent all the time. Slone could
find no evidence that the canyon had ever been traveled by hunters or
Indians. The day was pleasant and warm and still. Every once in a while a
little breath of wind would bring a fragrance of cedar and pinyon, and a
sweet hint of pine and sage. At every turn he looked ahead, expecting to see
the green of pine and the gray of sage. Toward the middle of the afternoon,
coming to a place where Wildfire had taken to a trot, he put Nagger to that
gait, and by sundown had worked up to where the canyon was only a shallow
ravine. And finally it turned once more, to lose itself in a level where
straggling pines stood high above the cedars, and great, dark-green silver
spruces stood above the pines. And here were patches of sage, fresh and
pungent, and long reaches of bleached grass. It was the edge of a forest.
Wildfire's trail went on. Slone came at length to a group of pines, and here
he found the remains of a camp-fire, and some flint arrow-heads. Indians had
been in there, probably having come from the opposite direction to Slone's.
This encouraged him, for where Indians could hunt so could he. Soon he was
entering a forest where cedars and pinyons and pines began to grow thickly.
Presently he came upon a faintly defined trail, just a dim, dark line even to
an experienced eye. But it was a trail, and Wildfire had taken it.

Slone halted for the night. The air was cold. And the dampness of it gave
him an idea there were snow-banks somewhere not far distant. The dew was
already heavy on the grass. He hobbled the horses and put a bell on Nagger. A
bell might frighten lions that had never heard one. Then he built a fire and
cooked his meal.

It had been long since he had camped high up among the pines. The sough of
the wind pleased him, like music. There had begun to be prospects of pleasant
experience along with the toil of chasing Wildfire. He was entering new and
strange and beautiful country. How far might the chase take him? He did not
care. He was not sleepy, but even if he had been it developed that he must
wait till the coyotes ceased their barking round his camp-fire. They came so
close that he saw their gray shadows in the gloom. But presently they wearied
of yelping at him and went away. After that the silence, broken only by the
wind as it roared and lulled, seemed beautiful to Slone. He lost completely
that sense of vague regret which had remained with him, and he forgot the
Stewarts. And suddenly he felt absolutely free, alone, with nothing behind to
remember, with wild, thrilling, nameless life before him. Just then the long
mourn of a timber wolf wailed in with the wind. Seldom had he heard the cry
of one of those night wanderers. There was nothing like it—no sound
like it to fix in the lone camper's heart the great solitude and the
wild.

IN the early morning when all was gray and the big, dark
pines were shadowy specters, Slone was awakened by the cold. His hands were
so numb that he had difficulty starting a fire. He stood over the blaze,
warming them. The air was nipping, clear and thin, and sweet with frosty
fragrance.

Daylight came while he was in the midst of his morning meal. A white frost
covered the ground and crackled under his feet as he went out to bring in the
horses. He saw fresh deer tracks. Then he went back to camp for his rifle.
Keeping a sharp lookout for game, he continued his search for the horses.

The forest was open and park-like. There were no fallen trees or evidences
of fire. Presently he came to a wide glade in the midst of which Nagger and
the pack-mustang were grazing with a herd of deer. The size of the latter
amazed Slone. The deer he had hunted back on the Sevier range were much
smaller than these. Evidently these were mule deer, closely allied to the
elk. They were so tame they stood facing him curiously, with long ears erect.
It was sheer murder to kill a deer standing and watching like that, but Slone
was out of meat and hungry and facing a long, hard trip. He shot a buck,
which leaped spasmodically away, trying to follow the herd, and fell at the
edge of the glade. Slone cut out a haunch, and then, catching the horses, he
returned to camp, where he packed and saddled, and at once rode out on the
dim trail.

The wildness of the country he was entering was evident in the fact that
as he passed the glade where he had shot the deer a few minutes before, there
were coyotes quarreling over the carcass.

Stone could see ahead and on each side several hundred yards, and
presently he ascertained that the forest floor was not so level as he had
supposed. He had entered a valley or was traversing a wide, gently sloping
pass. He went through thickets of juniper, and had to go around clumps of
quaking aspen. The pines grew larger and farther apart. Cedars and pinyons
had been left behind, and he had met with no silver spruces after leaving
camp. Probably that point was the height of a divide. There were banks of
snow in some of the hollows on the north side. Evidently the snow had very
recently melted, and it was evident also that the depth of snow through here
had been fully ten feet, judging from the mutilation of the juniper-trees
where the deer, standing on the hard, frozen crust, had browsed upon the
branches.

The quiet of the forest thrilled Slone. And the only movement was the
occasional gray flash of a deer or coyote across a glade. No birds of any
species crossed Stone's sight. He came, presently, upon a lion track in the
trail, made probably a day before. Slone grew curious about it, seeing how it
held, as he was holding, to Wildfire's tracks. After a mile or so he made
sure the lion had been trailing the stallion, and for a second he felt a cold
contraction of his heart. Already he loved Wildfire, and by virtue of all
this toil of travel considered the wild horse his property.

"No lion could ever get close to Wildfire," he soliloquized, with a short
laugh. Of that he was absolutely certain.

The sun rose, melting the frost, and a breath of warm air, laden with the
scent of pine, moved heavily under the huge, yellow trees. Slone passed a
point where the remains of an old camp-fire and a pile of deer antlers were
further proof that Indians visited this plateau to hunt. From this camp
broader, more deeply defined trails led away to the south and east. Slone
kept to the east trail, in which Wildfire's tracks and those of the lion
showed clearly. It was about the middle of the forenoon when the tracks of
the stallion and lion left the trail to lead up a little draw where grass
grew thick. Slone followed, reading the signs of Wildfire's progress, and the
action of his pursuer, as well as if he had seen them. Here the stallion had
plowed into a snow-bank, eating a hole two feet deep; then he had grazed
around a little; then on and on; there his splendid tracks were deep in the
soft earth. Slone knew what to expect when the track of the lion veered from
those of the horse, and he followed the lion tracks. The ground was soft from
the late melting of snow, and Nagger sunk deep. The lion left a plain track.
Here he stole steadily along; there he left many tracks at a point where he
might have halted to make sure of his scent. He was circling on the trail of
the stallion, with cunning intent of ambush. The end of this slow, careful
stalk of the lion, as told in his tracks, came upon the edge of a knoll where
he had crouched to watch and wait.

From this perch he had made a magnificent spring—Slone estimating it
to be forty feet-but he had missed the stallion. There were Wildfire's tracks
again, slow and short, and then deep and sharp where in the impetus of fright
he had sprung out of reach. A second leap of the lion, and then lessening
bounds, and finally an abrupt turn from Wildfire's trail told the futility of
that stalk. Slone made certain that Wildfire was so keen that as he grazed
along he had kept to open ground.

Wildfire had run for a mile, then slowed down to a trot, and he had
circled to get back to the trail he had left. Slone believed the horse was
just so intelligent. At any rate, Wildfire struck the trail again, and turned
at right angles to follow it.

Here the forest floor appeared perfectly level. Patches of snow became
frequent, and larger as Slone went on. At length the patches closed up, and
soon extended as far as he could see. It was soft, affording difficult
travel. Slone crossed hundreds of deer tracks, and the trail he was on
eventually became a deer runway.

Presently, far down one of the aisles between the great pines Slone saw
what appeared to be a yellow cliff, far away. It puzzled him. And as he went
on he received the impression that the forest dropped out of sight ahead.
Then the trees grew thicker, obstructing his view. Presently the trail became
soggy and he had to help his horse. The mustang floundered in the soft snow
and earth. Cedars and pinyons appeared again, making travel still more
laborious.

All at once there came to Slone a strange consciousness of light and wind
and space and void. On the instant his horse halted with a snort. Slone
quickly looked up. Had he come to the end of the world? An abyss, a canyon,
yawned beneath him, beyond all comparison in its greatness. His keen eye,
educated to desert distance and dimension, swept down and across, taking in
the tremendous truth, before it staggered his comprehension. But a second
sweeping glance, slower, becoming intoxicated with what it beheld, saw
gigantic cliff-steps and yellow slopes dotted with cedars, leading down to
clefts filled with purple smoke, and these led on and on to a ragged red
world of rock, bare, shining, bold, uplifted in mesa, dome, peak, and crag,
clear and strange in the morning light, still and sleeping like death.

This, then, was the great canyon, which had seemed like a hunter's fable
rather than truth. Slone's sight dimmed, blurring the spectacle, and he found
that his eyes had filled with tears. He wiped them away and looked again and
again, until he was confounded by the vastness and the grandeur and the vague
sadness of the scene. Nothing he had ever looked at had affected him like
this canyon, although the Stewarts had tried to prepare him for it.

It was the horse-hunter's passion that reminded him of his pursuit. The
deer trail led down through a break in the wall. Only a few rods of it could
be seen. This trail was passable, even though choked with snow. But the depth
beyond this wall seemed to fascinate Slone and hold him back, used as he was
to desert trails. Then the clean mark of Wildfire's hoof brought back the old
thrill.

"This place fits you, Wildfire," muttered Slone, dismounting.

He started down, leading Nagger. The mustang followed. Slone kept to the
wall side of the trail, fearing the horses might slip. The snow held firmly
at first and Slone had no trouble. The gap in the rim-rock widened to a slope
thickly grown over with cedars and pinyons and manzanita. This growth made
the descent more laborious, yet afforded means at least for Slone to go down
with less danger. There was no stopping. Once started, the horses had to keep
on. Slone saw the impossibility of ever climbing out while that snow was
there. The trail zigzagged down and down. Very soon the yellow wall hung
tremendously over him, straight up. The snow became thinner and softer. The
horses began to slip. They slid on their haunches. Fortunately the slope grew
less steep, and Slone could see below where it reached out to comparatively
level ground. Still, a mishap might yet occur. Slone kept as close to Nagger
as possible, helping him whenever he could do it. The mustang slipped, rolled
over, and then slipped past Slone, went down the slope to bring up in a
cedar. Slone worked down to him and extricated him. Then the huge Nagger
began to slide. Snow and loose rock slid with him, and so did Slone. The
little avalanche stopped of its own accord, and then Slone dragged Nagger on
down and down, presently to come to the end of the steep descent. Slone
looked up to see that he had made short work of a thousand-foot slope. Here
cedars and pinyons grew thickly enough to make a forest. The snow thinned out
to patches, and then failed. But the going remained bad for a while as the
horses sank deep in a soft red earth. This eventually grew more solid and
finally dry. Slone worked out of the cedars to what appeared a grassy plateau
inclosed by the great green-and-white slope with its yellow wall over
hanging, and distant mesas and cliffs. Here his view was restricted. He was
down on the first bench of the great canyon. And there was the deer trail, a
well-worn path keeping to the edge of the slope. Slone came to a deep cut in
the earth, and the trail headed it, where it began at the last descent of the
slope. It was the source of a canyon. He could look down to see the bare,
worn rock, and a hundred yards from where he stood the earth was washed from
its rims and it began to show depth and something of that ragged outline
which told of violence of flood. The trail headed many canyons like this, all
running down across this bench, disappearing, dropping invisibly. The trail
swung to the left under the great slope, and then presently it climbed to a
higher bench. Here were brush and grass and huge patches of sage, so pungent
that it stung Slone's nostrils. Then he went down again, this time to come to
a clear brook lined by willows. Here the horses drank long and Slone
refreshed himself. The sun had grown hot. There was fragrance of flowers he
could not see and a low murmur of a waterfall that was likewise invisible.
For most of the time his view was shut off, but occasionally he reached a
point where through some break he saw towers gleaming red in the sun. A
strange place, a place of silence, and smoky veils in the distance. Time
passed swiftly. Toward the waning of the afternoon he began to climb to what
appeared to be a saddle of land, connecting the canyon wall on the left with
a great plateau, gold-rimmed and pine-fringed, rising more and more in his
way as he advanced. At sunset Slone was more shut in than for several hours.
He could tell the time was sunset by the golden light on the cliff wall again
overhanging him. The slope was gradual up to this pass to the saddle, and
upon coming to a spring, and the first pine-trees, he decided to halt for a
camp. The mustang was almost exhausted.

Thereupon he hobbled the horses in the luxuriant grass round the spring,
and then unrolled his pack. Once as dusk came stealing down, while he was
eating his meal, Nagger whistled in fright. Slone saw a gray, pantherish form
gliding away into the shadows. He took a quick shot at it, but missed.

"It's a lion country, all right," he said. And then he set about building
a big fire on the other side of the grassy plot, so to have the horses
between fires. He cut all the venison into thin strips, and spent an hour
roasting them. Then he lay down to rest, and he said: "Wonder where Wildfire
is to-night? Am I closer to him? Where's he headin' for?"

The night was warm and still. It was black near the huge cliff, and
overhead velvety blue, with stars of white fire. It seemed to him that he had
become more thoughtful and observing of the aspects of his wild environment,
and he felt a welcome consciousness of loneliness. Then sleep came to him and
the night seemed short. In the gray dawn he arose refreshed.

The horses were restive. Nagger snorted a welcome. Evidently they had
passed an uneasy night. Slone found lion tracks at the spring and in sandy
places. Presently he was on his way up to the notch between the great wall
and the plateau. A growth of thick scrub-oak made travel difficult. It had
not appeared far up to that saddle, but it was far. There were straggling
pine-trees and huge rocks that obstructed his gaze. But once up he saw that
the saddle was only a narrow ridge, curved to slope up on both sides.

Straight before Slone and under him opened the canyon, blazing and
glorious along the peaks and ramparts, where the rising sun struck, misty and
smoky and shadowy down in those mysterious depths.

It took an effort not to keep on gazing. But Slone turned to the grim
business of his pursuit. The trail he saw leading down had been made by
Indians. It was used probably once a year by them; and also by wild animals,
and it was exceedingly steep and rough. Wildfire had paced to and fro along
the narrow ridge of that saddle, making many tracks, before he had headed
down again. Slone imagined that the great stallion had been daunted by the
tremendous chasm, but had finally faced it, meaning to put this obstacle
between him and his pursuers. It never occurred to Slone to attribute less
intelligence to Wildfire than that. So, dismounting, Slone took Nagger's
bridle and started down. The mustang with the pack was reluctant. He snorted
and whistled and pawed the earth. But he would not be left alone, so he
followed.

The trail led down under cedars that fringed a precipice. Slone was aware
of this without looking. He attended only to the trail and to his horse. Only
an Indian could have picked out that course, and it was cruel to put a horse
to it. But Nagger was powerful, sure-footed, and he would go anywhere that
Slone led him. Gradually Slone worked down and away from the bulging
rim-wall. It was hard, rough work, and risky because it could not be
accomplished slowly. Brush and rocks, loose shale and weathered slope, long,
dusty inclines of yellow earth, and jumbles of stone—these made bad
going for miles of slow, zigzag trail down out of the cedars. Then the trail
entered what appeared to be a ravine.

That ravine became a canyon. At its head it was a dry wash, full of gravel
and rocks. It began to cut deep into the bowels of the earth. It shut out
sight of the surrounding walls and peaks. Water appeared from under a cliff
and, augmented by other springs, became a brook. Hot, dry, and barren at its
beginning, this cleft became cool and shady and luxuriant with grass and
flowers and amber moss with silver blossoms. The rocks had changed color from
yellow to deep red. Four hours of turning and twisting, endlessly down and
down, over boulders and banks and every conceivable roughness of earth and
rock, finished the pack-mustang; and Slone mercifully left him in a long
reach of canyon where grass and water never failed. In this place Slone
halted for the noon hour, letting Nagger have his fill of the rich grazing.
Nagger's three days in grassy upland, despite the continuous travel by day,
had improved him. He looked fat, and Slone had not yet caught the horse
resting. Nagger was iron to endure. Here Slone left all the outfit except
what was on his saddle, and the sack containing the few pounds of meat and
supplies, and the two utensils. This sack he tied on the back of his saddle,
and resumed his journey.

Presently he came to a place where Wildfire had doubled on his trail and
had turned up a side canyon. The climb out was hard on Slone, if not on
Nagger. Once up, Slone found himself upon a wide, barren plateau of glaring
red rock and clumps of greasewood and cactus. The plateau was miles wide,
shut in by great walls and mesas of colored rock. The afternoon sun beat down
fiercely. A blast of wind, as if from a furnace, swept across the plateau,
and it was laden with red dust. Slone walked here, where he could have
ridden. And he made several miles of up-and-down progress over this rough
plateau. The great walls of the opposite side of the canyon loomed
appreciably closer. What, Slone wondered, was at the bottom of this rent in
the earth? The great desert river was down there, of course, but he knew
nothing of it. Would that turn back Wildfire? Slone thought grimly how he had
always claimed Nagger to be part fish and part bird. Wildfire was not going
to escape.

By and by only isolated mescal plants with long, yellow-plumed spears
broke the bare monotony of the plateau. And Slone passed from red sand and
gravel to a red, soft shale, and from that to hard, red rock. Here Wildfire's
tracks were lost, the first time in seven weeks. But Slone had his direction
down that plateau with the cleavage lines of canyons to right and left. At
times Slone found a vestige of the old Indian trail, and this made him doubly
sure of being right. He did not need to have Wildfire's tracks. He let Nagger
pick the way, and the horse made no mistake in finding the line of least
resistance. But that grew harder and harder. This bare rock, like a file,
would soon wear Wildfire's hoofs thin. And Slone rejoiced. Perhaps somewhere
down in this awful chasm he and Nagger would have it out with the stallion.
Slone began to look far ahead, beginning to believe that he might see
Wildfire. Twice he had seen Wildfire, but only at a distance. Then he had
resembled a running streak of fire, whence his name, which Slone had given
him.

This bare region of rock began to be cut up into gullies. It was necessary
to head them or to climb in and out. Miles of travel really meant little
progress straight ahead. But Slone kept on. He was hot and Nagger was hot,
and that made hard work easier. Sometimes on the wind came a low thunder. Was
it a storm or an avalanche slipping or falling water? He could not tell. The
sound was significant and haunting.

Of one thing he was sure—that he could not have found his
back-trail. But he divined he was never to retrace his steps on this journey.
The stretch of broken plateau before him grew wilder and bolder of outline,
darker in color, weirder in aspect, and progress across it grew slower, more
dangerous. There were many places Nagger should not have been put to—
where a slip meant a broken leg. But Slone could not turn back. And something
besides an indomitable spirit kept him going. Again the sound resembling
thunder assailed his ears, louder this time. The plateau appeared to be
ending in a series of great capes or promontories. Slone feared he would soon
come out upon a promontory from which he might see the impossibility of
further travel. He felt relieved down in the gullies, where he could not see
far. He climbed out of one, presently, from which there extended a narrow
ledge with a slant too perilous for any horse. He stepped out upon that with
far less confidence than Nagger. To the right was a bulge of low wall, and a
few feet to the left a dark precipice. The trail here was faintly outlined,
and it was six inches wide and slanting as well. It seemed endless to Slone,
that ledge. He looked only down at his feet and listened to Nagger's steps.
The big horse trod carefully, but naturally, and he did not slip. That ledge
extended in a long curve, turning slowly away from the precipice, and
ascending a little at the further end. Slone, drew a deep breath of relief
when he led Nagger up on level rock.

Suddenly a strange yet familiar sound halted Slone, as if he had been
struck. The wild, shrill, high-pitched, piercing whistle of a stallion!
Nagger neighed a blast in reply and pounded the rock with his iron-shod
hoofs. With a thrill Slone looked ahead.

There, some few hundred yards distant, on a promontory, stood a red
horse.

"My Lord!... It's Wildfire!" breathed Slone, tensely.

He could not believe his sight. He imagined he was dreaming. But as Nagger
stamped and snorted defiance Slone looked with fixed and keen gaze, and knew
that beautiful picture was no lie.

Wildfire was as red as fire. His long mane, wild in the wind, was like a
whipping, black-streaked flame. Silhouetted there against that canyon
background he seemed gigantic, a demon horse, ready to plunge into fiery
depths. He was looking back over his shoulder, his head very high, and every
line of him was instinct with wildness. Again he sent out that shrill,
air-splitting whistle. Slone understood it to be a clarion call to Nagger. If
Nagger had been alone Wildfire would have killed him. The red stallion was a
killer of horses. All over the Utah ranges he had left the trail of a
murderer. Nagger understood this, too, for he whistled back in rage and
terror. It took an iron arm to hold him. Then Wildfire plunged, apparently
down, and vanished from Slone's sight.

Slone hurried onward, to be blocked by a huge crack in the rocky plateau.
This he had to head. And then another and like obstacle checked his haste to
reach that promontory. He was forced to go more slowly. Wildfire had been
close only as to sight. And this was the great canyon that dwarfed distance
and magnified proximity. Climbing down and up, toiling on, he at last learned
patience. He had seen Wildfire at close range. That was enough. So he plodded
on, once more returning to careful regard of Nagger. It took an hour of work
to reach the point where Wildfire had disappeared.

A promontory indeed it was, overhanging a valley a thousand feet below. A
white torrent of a stream wound through it. There were lines of green
cottonwoods following the winding course. Then Slone saw Wildfire slowly
crossing the flat toward the stream. He had gone down that cliff, which to
Slone looked perpendicular.

Wildfire appeared to be walking lame. Slone, making sure of this, suffered
a pang. Then, when the significance of such lameness dawned upon him he
whooped his wild joy and waved his hat. The red stallion must have heard, for
he looked up. Then he went on again and waded into the stream, where he drank
long. When he started to cross, the swift current drove him back in several
places. The water wreathed white around him. But evidently it was not deep,
and finally he crossed. From the other side he looked up again at Nagger and
Slone, and, going on, he soon was out of sight in the cottonwoods.

"How to get down!" muttered Slone.

There was a break in the cliff wall, a bare stone slant where horses had
gone down and come up. That was enough for Slone to know. He would have
attempted the descent if he were sure no other horse but Wildfire had ever
gone down there. But Slone's hair began to rise stiff on his head. A horse
like Wildfire, and mountain sheep and Indian ponies, were all very different
from Nagger. The chances were against Nagger.

"Come on, old boy. If I can do it, you can," he said.

Slone had never seen a trail as perilous as this. He was afraid for his
horse. A slip there meant death. The way Nagger trembled in every muscle
showed his feelings. But he never flinched. He would follow Slone anywhere,
providing Slone rode him or led him. And here, as riding was impossible,
Slone went before. If the horse slipped there would be a double tragedy, for
Nagger would knock his master off the cliff. Slone set his teeth and stepped
down. He did not let Nagger see his fear. He was taking the greatest risk he
had ever run.

The break in the wall led to a ledge, and the ledge dropped from step to
step, and these had bare, slippery slants between. Nagger was splendid on a
bad trail. He had methods peculiar to his huge build and great weight. He
crashed down over the stone steps, both front hoofs at once. The slants he
slid down on his haunches with his forelegs stiff and the iron shoes
scraping. He snorted and heaved and grew wet with sweat. He tossed his head
at some of the places. But he never hesitated and it was impossible for him
to go slowly. Whenever Slone came to corrugated stretches in the trail he
felt grateful. But these were few. The rock was like smooth red iron. Slone
had never seen such hard rock. It took him long to realize that it was
marble. His heart seemed a tense, painful knot in his breast, as if it could
not beat, holding back in the strained suspense. But Nagger never jerked on
the bridle. He never faltered. Many times he slipped, often with both front
feet, but never with all four feet. So he did not fall. And the red wall
began to loom above Slone. Then suddenly he seemed brought to a point where
it was impossible to descend. It was a round bulge, slanting fearfully, with
only a few little rough surfaces to hold a foot. Wildfire had left a broad,
clear-swept mark at that place, and red hairs on some of the sharp points. He
had slid down. Below was an offset that fortunately prevented further
sliding, Slone started to walk down this place, but when Nagger began to
slide Slone had to let go the bridle and jump. Both he and the horse landed
safely. Luck was with them. And they went on, down and down, to reach the
base of the great wall, scraped and exhausted, wet with sweat, but unhurt. As
Slone gazed upward he felt the impossibility of believing what he knew to be
true. He hugged and petted the horse. Then he led on to the roaring
stream.

It was green water white with foam. Slone waded in and found the water
cool and shallow and very swift. He had to hold to Nagger to keep from being
swept downstream. They crossed in safety. There in the sand showed Wildfire's
tracks. And here were signs of another Indian camp, half a year old.

The shade of the cottonwoods was pleasant. Slone found this valley
oppressively hot. There was no wind and the sand blistered his feet through
his boots. Wildfire held to the Indian trail that had guided him down into
this wilderness of worn rock. And that trail crossed the stream at every turn
of the twisting, narrow valley. Slone enjoyed getting into the water. He hung
his gun over the pommel and let the water roll him. A dozen times he and
Nagger forded the rushing torrent. Then they came to a box-like closing of
the valley to canyon walls, and here the trail evidently followed the stream
bed. There was no other way. Slone waded in, and stumbled, rolled, and
floated ahead of the sturdy horse. Nagger was wet to his breast, but he did
not fall. This gulch seemed full of a hollow rushing roar. It opened out into
a wide valley. And Wildfire's tracks took to the left side and began to climb
the slope.

Here the traveling was good, considering what had been passed. Once up out
of the valley floor Slone saw Wildfire far ahead, high on the slope. He did
not appear to be limping, but he was not going fast. Slone watched as he
climbed. What and where would be the end of this chase?

Sometimes Wildfire was plain in his sight for a moment, but usually he was
hidden by rocks. The slope was one great talus, a jumble of weathered rock,
fallen from what appeared a mountain of red and yellow wall. Here the heat of
the sun fell upon him like fire. The rocks were so hot Slone could not touch
them with bare hand. The close of the afternoon was approaching, and this
slope was interminably long. Still, it was not steep, and the trail was
good.

At last from the height of slope Wildfire appeared, looking back and down.
Then he was gone. Slone plodded upward. Long before he reached that summit be
heard the dull rumble of the river. It grew to be a roar, yet it seemed
distant. Would the great desert river stop Wildfire in his flight? Slone
doubted it. He surmounted the ridge, to find the canyon opening in a
tremendous gap, and to see down, far down, a glittering, sun-blasted slope
merging into a deep, black gulch where a red river swept and chafed and
roared.

Somehow the river was what he had expected to see. A force that had cut
and ground this canyon could have been nothing but a river like that. The
trail led down, and Slone had no doubt that it crossed the river and led up
out of the canyon. He wanted to stay there and gaze endlessly and listen. At
length he began the descent. As he proceeded it seemed that the roar of the
river lessened. He could not understand why this was so. It took half an hour
to reach the last level, a ghastly, black, and iron-ribbed canyon bed, with
the river splitting it. He had not had a glimpse of Wildfire on this side of
the divide, but he found his tracks, and they led down off the last level,
through a notch in the black bank of marble to a sand-bar and the river.

Wildfire had walked straight off the sand into the water. Slone studied
the river and shore. The water ran slow, heavily, in sluggish eddies. From
far up the canyon came the roar of a rapid, and from below the roar of
another, heavier and closer. The river appeared tremendous, in ways Slone
felt rather than realized, yet it was not swift. Studying the black, rough
wall of rock above him, he saw marks where the river had been sixty feet
higher than where he stood on the sand. It was low, then. How lucky for him
that he had gotten there before flood season! He believed Wildfire had
crossed easily, and he knew Nagger could make it. Then he piled and tied his
supplies and weapons high on the saddle, to keep them dry, and looked for a
place to take to the water.

Wildfire had sunk deep before reaching the edge. Manifestly he had lunged
the last few feet. Slone found a better place, and waded in, urging Nagger.
The big horse plunged, almost going under, and began to swim. Slone kept
up-stream beside him. He found, presently, that the water was thick and made
him tired, so it was necessary to grasp a stirrup and be towed. The river
appeared only a few hundred feet wide, but probably it was wider than it
looked. Nagger labored heavily near the opposite shore; still, he landed
safely upon a rocky bank. There were patches of sand in which Wildfire's
tracks showed so fresh that the water had not yet dried out of them.

Slone rested his horse before attempting to climb out of that split in the
rock. However, Wildfire had found an easy ascent. On this side of the canyon
the bare rock did not predominate. A clear trail led up a dusty, gravelly
slope, upon which scant greasewood and cactus appeared. Half an hour's
climbing brought Slone to where he could see that he was entering a vast
valley, sloping up and narrowing to a notch in the dark cliffs, above which
towered the great red wall and about that the slopes of cedar and the yellow
rim-rock.

And scarcely a mile distant, bright in the westering sunlight, shone the
red stallion, moving slowly.

Slone pressed on steadily. Just before dark he came to an ideal spot to
camp. The valley had closed up, so that the lofty walls cast shadows that
met. A clump of cottonwoods surrounding a spring, abundance of rich grass,
willows and flowers lining the banks, formed an oasis in the bare valley.
Slone was tired out from the day of ceaseless toil down and up, and he could
scarcely keep his eyes open. But he tried to stay awake. The dead silence of
the valley, the dry fragrance, the dreaming walls, the advent of night low
down, when up on the ramparts the last red rays of the sun lingered, the
strange loneliness—these were sweet and comforting to him.

And that night's sleep was as a moment. He opened his eyes to see the
crags and towers and peaks and domes, and the lofty walls of that vast,
broken chaos of canyons across the river. They were now emerging from the
misty gray of dawn, growing pink and lilac and purple under the rising
sun.

He arose and set about his few tasks, which, being soon finished, allowed
him an early start.

Wildfire had grazed along no more than a mile in the lead. Slone looked
eagerly up the narrowing canyon, but he was not rewarded by a sight of the
stallion. As he progressed up a gradually ascending trail he became aware of
the fact that the notch he had long looked up to was where the great red
walls closed in and almost met. And the trail zigzagged up this narrow vent,
so steep that only a few steps could be taken without rest. Slone toiled up
for an hour—an age—till he was wet, burning, choked, with a great
weight on his chest. Yet still he was only half-way up that awful break
between the walls. Sometimes he could have tossed a stone down upon a part of
the trail, only a few rods below, yet many, many weary steps of actual toil.
As he got farther up the notch widened. What had been scarcely visible from
the valley below was now colossal in actual dimensions. The trail was like a
twisted mile of thread between two bulging mountain walls leaning their
ledges and fronts over this tilted pass.

Slone rested often. Nagger appreciated this and heaved gratefully at every
halt. In this monotonous toil Slone forgot the zest of his pursuit. And when
Nagger suddenly snorted in fright Slone was not prepared for what he saw.

Above him ran a low, red wall, around which evidently the trail led. At
the curve, which was a promontory, scarcely a hundred feet in an airline
above him, he saw something red moving, bobbing, coming out into view. It was
a horse.

Wildfire—no farther away than the length of three lassoes!

There he stood looking down. He fulfilled all of Slone's dreams. Only he
was bigger. But he was so magnificently proportioned that he did not seem
heavy. His coat was shaggy and red. It was not glossy. The color was what
made him shine. His mane was like a crest, mounting, then failing low. Slone
had never seen so much muscle on a horse. Yet his outline was graceful,
beautiful. The head was indeed that of the wildest of all wild creatures
—a stallion born wild—and it was beautiful, savage, splendid,
everything but noble. Whatever Wildfire was, he was a devil, a murderer
—he had no noble attributes. Slone thought that if a horse could
express hate, surely Wildfire did then. It was certain that he did express
curiosity and fury.

Slone shook a gantleted fist at the stallion, as if the horse were human.
That was a natural action for a rider of his kind. Wildfire turned away,
showed bright against the dark background, and then disappeared.

It took all of this day to climb out of the canyon. The second was a slow
march of thirty miles into a scrub cedar and pinyon forest, through which the
great red and yellow walls of the canyon could be seen. That night Slone
found a water-hole in a rocky pocket and a little grass for Nagger. The third
day's travel consisted of forty miles or more through level pine forest, dry
and odorous, but lacking the freshness and beauty of the forest on the north
side of the canyon. On this south side a strange feature was that all the
water, when there was any, ran away from the rim. Slone camped this night at
a muddy pond in the woods, where Wildfire's tracks showed plainly.

On the following day Slone rode out of the forest into a country of scanty
cedars, bleached and stunted, and out of this to the edge of a plateau, from
which the shimmering desert flung its vast and desolate distances, forbidding
and menacing. This was not the desert upland country of Utah, but a naked and
bony world of colored rock and sand—a painted desert of heat and wind
and flying sand and waterless wastes and barren ranges. But it did not daunt
Slone. For far down on the bare, billowing ridges moved a red speck, at a
snail's pace, a slowly moving dot of color which was Wildfire.

On open ground like this, Nagger, carrying two hundred and fifty pounds,
showed his wonderful quality. He did not mind the heat nor the sand nor the
glare nor the distance nor his burden. He did not tire. He was an engine of
tremendous power.

Slone gained upon Wildfire, and toward evening of that day he reached to
within half a mile of the stallion. And he chose to keep that far behind.
That night he camped where there was dry grass, but no water.

Next day he followed Wildfire down and down, over the endless swell of
rolling red ridges, bare of all but bleached white grass and meager
greasewood, always descending in the face of that painted desert of bold and
ragged steps. Slone made fifty miles that day, and gained the valley bed,
where a slender stream ran thin and spread over a wide sandy bottom. It was
salty water, but it was welcome to both man and beast.

The following day he crossed, and the tracks of Wildfire were still wet on
the sand-bars. The stallion was slowing down. Slone saw him, limping along,
not far in advance. There was a ten-mile stretch of level ground, blown hard
as rock, from which the sustenance had been bleached, for not a spear of
grass grew there. And following that was a tortuous passage through a weird
region of clay dunes, blue and violet and heliotrope and lavender, all worn
smooth by rain and wind. Wildfire favored the soft ground now. He had
deviated from his straight course. And he was partial to washes and dips in
the earth where water might have lodged. And he was not now scornful of a
green-scummed water-hole with its white margin of alkali. That night Slone
made camp with Wildfire in plain sight. The stallion stopped when his
pursuers stopped. And he began to graze on the same stretch with Nagger. How
strange this seemed to Slone!

Here at this camp was evidence of Indians. Wildfire had swung round to the
north in his course. Like any pursued wild animal, he had began to circle.
And he had pointed his nose toward the Utah he had left.

Next morning Wildfire was not in sight, but he had left his tracks in the
sand. Slone trailed him with Nagger at a trot. Toward the head of this sandy
flat Slone came upon old corn-fields, and a broken dam where the water had
been stored, and well-defined trails leading away to the right. Somewhere
over there in the desert lived Indians. At this point Wildfire abandoned the
trail he had followed for many days and cut out more to the north. It took
all the morning hours to climb three great steps and benches that led up to
the summit of a mesa, vast in extent. It turned out to be a sandy waste. The
wind rose and everywhere were moving sheets of sand, and in the distance
circular yellow dust-devils, rising high like waterspouts, and back down in
the sun-scorched valley a sandstorm moved along majestically, burying the
desert in its yellow pall.

Then two more days of sand and another day of a slowly rising ground
growing from bare to gray and gray to green, and then to the purple of sage
and cedar—these three grinding days were toiled out with only one
water-hole.

And Wildfire was lame and in distress and Nagger was growing gaunt and
showing strain; and Slone, haggard and black and worn, plodded miles and
miles on foot to save his horse.

Slone felt that it would be futile to put the chase to a test of speed.
Nagger could never head that stallion. Slone meant to go on and on, always
pushing Wildfire, keeping him tired, wearied, and worrying him, till a
section of the country was reached where he could drive Wildfire into some
kind of a natural trap. The pursuit seemed endless. Wildfire kept to open
country where he could not be surprised.

There came a morning when Slone climbed to a cedared plateau that rose for
a whole day's travel, and then split into a labyrinthine maze of canyons.
There were trees, grass, water. It was a high country, cool and wild, like
the uplands he had left. For days he camped on Wildfire's trail, always
relentlessly driving him, always watching for the trap he hoped to find. And
the red stallion spent much of this time of flight in looking backward.
Whenever Slone came in sight of him he had his head over his shoulder,
watching. And on the soft ground of these canyons he had begun to recover
from his lameness. But this did not worry Slone. Sooner or later Wildfire
would go down into a high-walled wash, from which there would be no outlet;
or he would wander into a box-canyon; or he would climb out on a mesa with no
place to descend, unless he passed Slone; or he would get cornered on a soft,
steep slope where his hoofs would sink deep and make him slow. The nature of
the desert had changed. Slone had entered a wonderful region, the like of
which he had not seen—a high plateau crisscrossed in every direction by
narrow canyons with red walls a thousand feet high.

And one of the strange turning canyons opened into a vast valley of
monuments.

The plateau had weathered and washed away, leaving huge sections of stone
walls, all standing isolated, different in size and shape, but all clean-cut,
bold, with straight lines. They stood up everywhere, monumental, towering,
many-colored, lending a singular and beautiful aspect to the great
green-and-gray valley, billowing away to the north, where dim, broken
battlements mounted to the clouds.

The only living thing in Slone's sight was Wildfire. He shone red down on
the green slope.

Slone's heart swelled. This was the setting for that grand horse—a
perfect wild range. But also it seemed the last place where there might be
any chance to trap the stallion. Still that did not alter Slone's purpose,
though it lost to him the joy of former hopes. He rode down the slope, out
upon the billowing floor of the valley. Wildfire looked back to see his
pursuers, and then the solemn stillness broke to a wild, piercing
whistle.

Day after day, camping where night found him, Slone followed the stallion,
never losing sight of him till darkness had fallen. The valley was immense
and the monuments miles apart. But they always seemed close together and near
him. The air magnified everything. Slone lost track of time. The strange,
solemn, lonely days and the silent, lonely nights, and the endless pursuit,
and the wild, weird valley—these completed the work of years on Slone
and he became satisfied, unthinking, almost savage.

The toil and privation had worn him down and he was like iron. His
garments hung in tatters; his boots were ripped and soleless. Long since his
flour had been used up, and all his supplies except the salt. He lived on the
meat of rabbits, but they were scarce, and the time came when there were
none. Some days he did not eat. Hunger did not make him suffer. He killed a
desert bird now and then, and once a wildcat crossing the valley. Eventually
he felt his strength diminishing, and then he took to digging out the
pack-rats and cooking them. But these, too, were scarce. At length starvation
faced Slone. But he knew he would not starve. Many times he had been within
rifle-shot of Wildfire. And the grim, forbidding thought grew upon him that
he must kill the stallion. The thought seemed involuntary, but his mind
rejected it. Nevertheless, he knew that if he could not catch the stallion he
would kill him. That had been the end of many a desperate rider's pursuit of
a coveted horse.

While Slone kept on his merciless pursuit, never letting Wildfire rest by
day, time went on just as relentlessly. Spring gave way to early summer. The
hot sun bleached the grass; water-holes failed out in the valley, and water
could be found only in the canyons; and the dry winds began to blow the sand.
It was a sandy valley, green and gray only at a distance, and out toward the
north there were no monuments, and the slow heave of sand lifted toward the
dim walls.

Wildfire worked away from this open valley, back to the south end, where
the great monuments loomed, and still farther back, where they grew closer,
till at length some of them were joined by weathered ridges to the walls of
the surrounding plateau. For all that Slone could see, Wildfire was in
perfect condition. But Nagger was not the horse he had been. Slone realized
that in one way or another the pursuit was narrowing down to the end.

He found a water-hole at the head of a wash in a split in the walls, and
here he let Nagger rest and graze one whole day—the first day for a
long time that he had not kept the red stallion in sight. That day was marked
by the good fortune of killing a rabbit, and while eating it his gloomy,
fixed mind admitted that he was starving. He dreaded the next sunrise. But he
could not hold it back. There, behind the dark monuments, standing
sentinel-like, the sky lightened and reddened and burst into gold and pink,
till out of the golden glare the sun rose glorious. And Slone, facing the
league-long shadows of the monuments, rode out again into the silent, solemn
day, on his hopeless quest.

For a change Wildfire had climbed high up a slope of talus, through a
narrow pass, rounded over with drifting sand. And Slone gazed down into a
huge amphitheater full of monuments, like all that strange country. A basin
three miles across lay beneath him. Walls and weathered slants of rock and
steep slopes of reddish-yellow sand inclosed this oval depression. The floor
was white, and it seemed to move gently or radiate with heat-waves. Studying
it, Slone made out that the motion was caused by wind in long bleached grass.
He had crossed small areas of this grass in different parts of the
region.

Wildfire's tracks led down into this basin, and presently Slone, by
straining his eyes, made out the red spot that was the stallion.

"He's lookin' to quit the country," soliloquized Slone, as he surveyed the
scene.

With keen, slow gaze Slone studied the lay of wall and slope, and when he
had circled the huge depression he made sure that Wildfire could not get out
except by the narrow pass through which he had gone in. Slone sat astride
Nagger in the mouth of this pass—a wash a few yards wide, walled by
broken, rough rock on one side and an insurmountable slope on the other.

"If this hole was only little, now," sighed Slone, as he gazed at the
sweeping, shimmering oval floor, "I might have a chance. But down there
—we couldn't get near him."

There was no water in that dry bowl. Slone reflected on the uselessness of
keeping Wildfire down there, because Nagger could not go without water as
long as Wildfire. For the first time Slone hesitated. It seemed merciless to
Nagger to drive him down into this hot, windy hole. The wind blew from the
west, and it swooped up the slope, hot, with the odor of dry, dead grass.

But that hot wind stirred Slone with an idea, and suddenly he was tense,
excited, glowing, yet grim and hard.

"Wildfire, I'll make you run with your namesake in that high grass,"
called Slone. The speech was full of bitter failure, of regret, of the
hardness of a rider who could not give up the horse to freedom.

Slone meant to ride down there and fire the long grass. In that wind there
would indeed be wildfire to race with the red stallion. It would perhaps mean
his death; at least it would chase him out of that hole, where to follow him
would be useless.

"I'd make you hump now to get away if I could get behind you," muttered
Slone. He saw that if he could fire the grass on the other side the wind of
flame would drive Wildfire straight toward him. The slopes and walls narrowed
up to the pass, but high grass grew to within a few rods of where Slone
stood. But it seemed impossible to get behind Wildfire.

"At night—then—I could get round him," said Slone, thinking
hard and narrowing his gaze to scan the circle of wall and slope. "Why
not?... No wind at night. That grass would burn slow till mornin'—till
the wind came up—an' it's been west for days."

Suddenly Slone began to pound the patient Nagger and to cry out to him in
wild exultance.

"Old horse, we've got him!... We've got him!... We'll put a rope on him
before this time to-morrow!"

Slone yielded to his strange, wild joy, but it did not last long, soon
succeeding to sober, keen thought. He rode down into the bowl a mile, making
absolutely certain that Wildfire could not climb out on that side. The far
end, beyond the monuments, was a sheer wall of rock. Then he crossed to the
left side. Here the sandy slope was almost too steep for even him to go up.
And there was grass that would burn. He returned to the pass assured that
Wildfire had at last fallen into a trap the like Slone had never dreamed of
The great horse was doomed to run into living flame or the whirling noose of
a lasso.

Then Slone reflected. Nagger had that very morning had his fill of good
water—the first really satisfying drink for days. If he was rested that
day, on the morrow he would be fit for the grueling work possibly in store
for him. Slone unsaddled the horse and turned him loose, and with a snort he
made down the gentle slope for the grass. Then Slone carried his saddle to a
shady spot afforded by a slab of rock and a dwarf cedar, and here he composed
himself to rest and watch and think and wait.

Wildfire was plainly in sight no more than two miles away. Gradually he
was grazing along toward the monuments and the far end of the great basin.
Slone believed, because the place was so large, that Wildfire thought there
was a way out on the other side or over the slopes or through the walls.
Never before had the far-sighted stallion made a mistake. Slone suddenly felt
the keen, stabbing fear of an outlet somewhere. But it left him quickly. He
had studied those slopes and walls. Wildfire could not get out, except by the
pass he had entered, unless he could fly.

Slone lay in the shade, his head propped on his saddle, and while gazing
down into the shimmering hollow he began to plan. He calculated that he must
be able to carry fire swiftly across the far end of the basin, so that he
would not be absent long from the mouth of the pass. Fire was always a
difficult matter, since he must depend only on flint and steel. He decided to
wait till dark, build a fire with dead cedar sticks, and carry a bundle of
them with burning ends. He felt assured that the wind caused by riding would
keep them burning. After he had lighted the grass all he had to do was to
hurry back to his station and there await developments.

The day passed slowly, and it was hot. The heat-waves rose in dark,
wavering lines and veils from the valley. The wind blew almost a gale. Thin,
curling sheets of sand blew up over the crests of the slopes, and the sound
it made was a soft, silken rustling, very low. The sky was a steely blue
above and copper close over the distant walls.

That afternoon, toward the close, Slone ate the last of the meat. At
sunset the wind died away and the air cooled. There was a strip of red along
the wall of rock and on the tips of the monuments, and it lingered there for
long, a strange, bright crown. Nagger was not far away, but Wildfire had
disappeared, probably behind one of the monuments.

When twilight fell Slone went down after Nagger and, returning with him,
put on bridle and saddle. Then he began to search for suitable sticks of
wood. Farther back in the pass he found stunted dead cedars, and from these
secured enough for his purpose. He kindled a fire and burnt the ends of the
sticks into red embers. Making a bundle of these, he put them under his arm,
the dull, glowing ends backward, and then mounted his horse.

It was just about dark when he faced down into the valley. When he reached
level ground he kept to the edge of the left slope and put Nagger to a good
trot. The grass and brush were scant here, and the color of the sand was
light, so he had no difficulty in traveling.

From time to time his horse went through grass, and its dry, crackling
rustle, showing how it would burn, was music to Slone. Gradually the
monuments began to loom up, bold and black against the blue sky, with stars
seemingly hanging close over them. Slone had calculated that the basin was
smaller than it really was, in both length and breadth. This worried him.
Wildfire might see or hear or scent him, and make a break back to the pass
and thus escape. Slone was glad when the huge, dark monuments were
indistinguishable from the black, frowning wall. He had to go slower here,
because of the darkness. But at last he reached the slow rise of jumbled rock
that evidently marked the extent of weathering on that side. Here he turned
to the right and rode out into the valley. The floor was level and thickly
overgrown with long, dead grass and dead greasewood, as dry as tinder. It was
easy to account for the dryness; neither snow nor rain had visited that
valley for many months. Slone whipped one of the sticks in the wind and soon
had the smoldering end red and showering sparks. Then he dropped the stick in
the grass, with curious intent and a strange feeling of regret.

Instantly the grass blazed with a little sputtering roar. Nagger snorted.
"Wildfire!" exclaimed Slone. That word was a favorite one with riders, and
now Slone used it both to call out his menace to the stallion and to express
his feeling for that blaze, already running wild.

Without looking back Slone rode across the valley, dropping a glowing
stick every quarter of a mile. When he reached the other side there were a
dozen fires behind him, burning slowly, with white smoke rising lazily. Then
he loped Nagger along the side back to the sandy ascent, and on up to the
mouth of the pass. There he searched for tracks. Wildfire had not gone out,
and Slone experienced relief and exultation. He took up a position in the
middle of the narrowest part of the pass, and there, with Nagger ready for
anything, he once more composed himself to watch and wait.

Far across the darkness of the valley, low down, twelve lines of fire,
widely separated, crept toward one another. They appeared thin and slow, with
only an occasional leaping flame. And some of the black spaces must have been
monuments, blotting out the creeping snail-lines of red. Slone watched,
strangely fascinated.

"What do you think of that?" he said, aloud, and he meant his query for
Wildfire.

As he watched the lines perceptibly lengthened and brightened and pale
shadows of smoke began to appear. Over at the left of the valley the two
brightest fires, the first he had started, crept closer and closer together.
They seemed long in covering distance. But not a breath of wind stirred, and
besides they really might move swiftly, without looking so to Slone. When the
two lines met a sudden and larger blaze rose.

"Ah!" said the rider, and then he watched the other lines creeping
together. How slowly fire moved, he thought. The red stallion would have
every chance to run between those lines, if he dared. But a wild horse feared
nothing like fire. This one would not run the gantlet of flames.
Nevertheless, Slone felt more and more relieved as the lines closed. The
hours of the night dragged past until at length one long, continuous line of
fire spread level across the valley, its bright, red line broken only where
the monuments of stone were silhouetted against it.

The darkness of the valley changed. The light of the moon changed. The
radiance of the stars changed. Either the line of fire was finding denser
fuel to consume or it was growing appreciably closer, for the flames began to
grow, to leap, and to flare.

Slone strained his ears for the thud of hoofs on sand.

The time seemed endless in its futility of results, but fleeting after it
had passed; and he could tell how the hours fled by the ever-recurring need
to replenish the little fire he kept burning in the pass.

A broad belt of valley grew bright in the light, and behind it loomed the
monuments, weird and dark, with columns of yellow and white smoke wreathing
them.

Suddenly Slone's sensitive ear vibrated to a thrilling sound. He leaned
down to place his ear to the sand. Rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs made him
leap to his feet, reaching for his lasso with right hand and a gun with his
left.

Nagger lifted his head, sniffed the air, and snorted. Slone peered into
the black belt of gloom that lay below him. It would be hard to see a horse
there, unless he got high enough to be silhouetted against that line of fire
now flaring to the sky. But he heard the beat of hoofs, swift, sharp, louder
—louder. The night shadows were deceptive. That wonderful light
confused him, made the place unreal. Was he dreaming? Or had the long chase
and his privations unhinged his mind? He reached for Nagger. No! The big
black was real, alive, quivering, pounding the sand. He scented an enemy.

Once more Slone peered down into the void or what seemed a void. But it,
too, had changed, lightened. The whole valley was brightening. Great palls of
curling smoke rose white and yellow, to turn back as the monuments met their
crests, and then to roll upward, blotting out the stars. It was such a light
as he had never seen, except in dreams. Pale moonlight and dimmed starlight
and wan dawn all vague and strange and shadowy under the wild and vivid light
of burning grass.

In the pale path before Slone, that fanlike slope of sand which opened
down into the valley, appeared a swiftly moving black object, like a fleeting
phantom. It was a phantom horse. Slone felt that his eyes, deceived by his
mind, saw racing images. Many a wild chase he had lived in dreams on some far
desert. But what was that beating in his ears—sharp, swift, even,
rhythmic? Never had his ears played him false. Never had he heard things in
his dreams. That running object was a horse and he was coming like the wind.
Slone felt something grip his heart. All the time and endurance and pain and
thirst and suspense and longing and hopelessness—the agony of the whole
endless chase—closed tight on his heart in that instant.

The running horse halted just in the belt of light cast by the burning
grass. There he stood sharply defined, clear as a cameo, not a hundred paces
from Slone. It was Wildfire.

Slone uttered an involuntary cry. Thrill on thrill shot through him.
Delight and hope and fear and despair claimed him in swift, successive
flashes. And then again the ruling passion of a rider held him—the
sheer glory of a grand and unattainable horse. For Slone gave up Wildfire in
that splendid moment. How had he ever dared to believe he could capture that
wild stallion? Slone looked and looked, filling his mind, regretting nothing,
sure that the moment was reward for all he had endured.

The weird lights magnified Wildfire and showed him clearly. He seemed
gigantic. He shone black against the fire. His head was high, his mane
flying. Behind him the fire flared and the valley-wide column of smoke rolled
majestically upward, and the great monuments seemed to retreat darkly and
mysteriously as the flames advanced beyond them. It was a beautiful,
unearthly spectacle, with its silence the strangest feature.

But suddenly Wildfire broke that silence with a whistle which to Slone's
overstrained faculties seemed a blast as piercing as the splitting sound of
lightning. And with the whistle Wildfire plunged up toward the pass. Slone
yelled at the top of his lungs and fired his gun before he could terrorize
the stallion and drive him back down the slope. Soon Wildfire became again a
running black object, and then he disappeared.

The great line of fire had gotten beyond the monuments and now stretched
unbroken across the valley from wall to slope. Wildfire could never pierce
that line of flames. And now Slone saw, in the paling sky to the east, that
dawn was at hand.

SLONE looked grimly glad when simultaneously with the first
red flash of sunrise a breeze fanned his cheek. All that was needed now was a
west wind. And here came the assurance of it.

The valley appeared hazy and smoky, with slow, rolling clouds low down
where the line of fire moved. The coming of daylight paled the blaze of the
grass, though here and there Slone caught flickering glimpses of dull red
flame. The wild stallion kept to the center of the valley, restlessly facing
this way and that, but never toward the smoke. Slone made sure that Wildfire
gradually gave ground as the line of smoke slowly worked toward him.

Every moment the breeze freshened, grew steadier and stronger, until Slone
saw that it began to clear the valley of the low-hanging smoke. There came a
time when once more the blazing line extended across from slope to slope.

Wildfire was cornered, trapped. Many times Slone nervously uncoiled and
recoiled his lasso. Presently the great chance of his life would come—
the hardest and most important throw he would ever have with a rope. He did
not miss often, but then he missed sometimes, and here he must be swift and
sure. It annoyed him that his hands perspired and trembled and that something
weighty seemed to obstruct his breathing. He muttered that he was pretty much
worn out, not in the best of condition for a hard fight with a wild horse.
Still he would capture Wildfire; his mind was unalterably set there. He
anticipated that the stallion would make a final and desperate rush past him;
and he had his plan of action all outlined. What worried him was the
possibility of Wildfire doing some unforeseen feat at the very last. Slone
was prepared for hours of strained watching, and then a desperate effort, and
then a shock that might kill Wildfire and cripple Nagger, or a long race and
fight.

But he soon discovered that he was wrong about the long watch and wait.
The wind had grown strong and was driving the fire swiftly. The flames,
fanned by the breeze, leaped to a formidable barrier. In less than an hour,
though the time seemed only a few moments to the excited Slone, Wildfire had
been driven down toward the narrowing neck of the valley, and he had begun to
run, to and fro, back and forth. Any moment, then, Slone expected him to grow
terrorized and to come tearing up toward the pass.

Wildfire showed evidence of terror, but he did not attempt to make the
pass. Instead he went at the right-hand slope of the valley and began to
climb. The slope was steep and soft, yet the stallion climbed up and up. The
dust flew in clouds; the gravel rolled down, and the sand followed in long
streams. Wildfire showed his keenness by zigzagging up the slope.

"Go ahead, you red devil!" yelled Slone. He was much elated. In that soft
bank Wildfire would tire out while not hurting himself.

Slone watched the stallion in admiration and pity and exultation. Wildfire
did not make much headway, for he slipped back almost as much as he gained.
He attempted one place after another where he failed. There was a bank of
clay, some few feet high, and he could not round it at either end or surmount
it in the middle. Finally he literally pawed and cut a path, much as if he
were digging in the sand for water. When he got over that he was not much
better off. The slope above was endless and grew steeper, more difficult
toward the top. Slone knew absolutely that no horse could climb over it. He
grew apprehensive, however, for Wildfire might stick up there on the slope
until the line of fire passed. The horse apparently shunned any near
proximity to the fire, and performed prodigious efforts to escape.

"He'll be ridin' an avalanche pretty soon," muttered Slone.

Long sheets of sand and gravel slid down to spill thinly over the low
bank. Wildfire, now sinking to his knees, worked steadily upward till he had
reached a point halfway up the slope, at the head of a long, yellow bank of
treacherous-looking sand. Here he was halted by a low bulge, which he might
have surmounted had his feet been free. But he stood deep in the sand. For
the first time he looked down at the sweeping fire, and then at Slone.

Suddenly the bank of sand began to slide with him. He snorted in fright.
The avalanche started slowly and was evidently no mere surface slide. It was
deep. It stopped—then started again—and again stopped. Wildfire
appeared to be sinking deeper and deeper. His struggles only embedded him
more firmly. Then the bank of sand, with an ominous, low roar, began to move
once more. This time it slipped swiftly. The dust rose in a cloud, almost
obscuring the horse. Long streams of gravel rattled down, and waterfalls of
sand waved over the steps of the slope.

Just as suddenly the avalanche stopped again. Slone saw, from the great
oval hole it had left above, that it was indeed deep. That was the reason it
did not slide readily. When the dust cleared away Slone saw the stallion,
sunk to his flanks in the sand, utterly helpless.

With a wild whoop Slone leaped off Nagger, and, a lasso in each hand, he
ran down the long bank. The fire was perhaps a quarter of a mile distant,
and, since the grass was thinning out, it was not coming so fast as it. had
been. The position of the stallion was half-way between the fire and Slone,
and a hundred yards up the slope.

Like a madman Slone climbed up through the dragging, loose sand. He was
beside himself with a fury of excitement. He fancied his eyes were failing
him, that it was not possible the great horse really was up there, helpless
in the sand. Yet every huge stride Slone took brought him closer to a fact he
could not deny. In his eagerness he slipped, and fell, and crawled, and
leaped, until he reached the slide which held Wildfire prisoner.

The stallion might have been fast in quicksand, up to his body, for all
the movement he could make. He could move only his head. He held that up, his
eyes wild, showing the whites, his foaming mouth wide open, his teeth
gleaming. A sound like a scream rent the air. Terrible fear and hate were
expressed in that piercing neigh. And shaggy, wet, dusty red, with all of
brute savageness in the look and action of his head, he appeared hideous.

As Slone leaped within roping distance the avalanche slipped a foot or
two, halted, slipped once more, and slowly started again with that low roar.
He did not care whether it slipped or stopped. Like a wolf he leaped closer,
whirling his rope. The loop hissed round his head and whistled as he flung
it. And when fiercely he jerked back on the rope, the noose closed tight
round Wildfire's neck.

"By G—d—I—got—a rope—on him!" cried Slone,
in hoarse pants.

He stared, unbelieving. It was unreal, that sight—unreal like the
slow, grinding movement of the avalanche under him. Wildfire's head seemed a
demon head of hate. It reached out, mouth agape, to bite, to rend. That
horrible scream could not be the scream of a horse.

Slone was a wild-horse hunter, a rider, and when that second of
incredulity flashed by, then came the moment of triumph. No moment could ever
equal that one, when he realized he stood there with a rope around that grand
stallion's neck. All the days and the miles and the toil and the endurance
and the hopelessness and the hunger were paid for in that moment. His heart
seemed too large for his breast.

The passion of the man was intense. That endless, racking pursuit had
brought out all the hardness the desert had engendered in him. Almost hate,
instead of love, spoke in Slone's words. He hauled on the lasso, pulling the
stallion's head down and down. The action was the lust of capture as well as
the rider's instinctive motive to make the horse fear him. Life was
unquenchably wild and strong in that stallion; it showed in the terror which
made him hideous. And man and beast somehow resembled each other in that
moment which was inimical to noble life.

The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacherously loosing its
hold for a long plunge. The line of fire below ate at the bleached grass and
the long column of smoke curled away on the wind.

Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with the right he swung
the other rope, catching the noose round Wildfire's nose. Then letting go of
the first rope he hauled on the other, pulling the head of the stallion far
down. Hand over hand Slone closed in on the horse. He leaped on Wildfire's
head, pressed it down, and, holding it down on the sand with his knees, with
swift fingers he tied the noose in a hackamore—an improvised halter.
Then, just as swiftly, he bound his scarf tight round Wildfire's head,
blindfolding him.

"All so easy!" exclaimed Slone, under his breath. "Lord! who would believe
it!... Is it a dream?"

He rose and let the stallion have a free head.

"Wildfire, I got a rope on you—an' a hackamore—an' a blinder,"
said Slone. "An' if I had a bridle I'd put that on you.... Who'd ever believe
you'd catch yourself, draggin' in the sand?"

Slone, finding himself failing on the sand, grew alive to the augmented
movement of the avalanche. It had begun to slide, to heave and bulge and
crack. Dust rose in clouds from all around. The sand appeared to open and let
him sink to his knees. The rattle of gravel was drowned in a soft roar. Then
he shot down swiftly, holding the lassoes, keeping himself erect, and riding
as if in a boat. He felt the successive steps of the slope, and then the long
incline below, and then the checking and rising and spreading of the
avalanche as it slowed down on the level. All movement then was checked
violently. He appeared to be half buried in sand. While he struggled to
extricate himself the thick dust blew away and settled so that he could see.
Wildfire lay before him, at the edge of the slide, and now he was not so
deeply embedded as he had been up on the slope. He was struggling and
probably soon would have been able to get out. The line of fire was close
now, but Slone did not fear that.

At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, obedient, but snorting,
with ears laid back. He halted. A second whistle started him again. Slone
finally dug himself out of the sand, pulled the lassoes out, and ran the
length of them toward Nagger. The black showed both fear and fight. His eyes
roiled and he half shied away.

"Come on!" called Slone, harshly.

He got a hand on the horse, pulled him round, and, mounting in a flash,
wound both lassoes round the pommel of the saddle.

"Haul him out, Nagger, old boy!" cried Slone, and he dug spurs into the
black.

One plunge of Nagger's slid the stallion out of the sand. Snorting, wild,
blinded, Wildfire got up, shaking in every limb. He could not see his
enemies. The blowing smoke, right in his nose, made scent impossible. But in
the taut lassoes he sensed the direction of his captors. He plunged, rearing
at the end of the plunge, and struck out viciously with his hoofs. Slone,
quick with spur and bridle, swerved Nagger aside and Wildfire, off his
balance, went down with a crash. Slone dragged him, stretched him out, pulled
him over twice before he got forefeet planted. Once up, he reared again,
screeching his rage, striking wildly with his hoofs. Slone wheeled aside and
toppled him over again.

"Wildfire, it's no fair fight," he called, grimly. "But you led me a
chase.... An' you learn right now I'm boss!"

Again he dragged the stallion. He was ruthless. He would have to be so,
stopping just short of maiming or killing the horse, else he would never
break him. But Wildfire was nimble. He got to his feet and this time he
lunged out. Nagger, powerful as he was, could not sustain the tremendous
shock, and went down. Slone saved himself with a rider's supple skill,
falling clear of the horse, and he leaped again into the saddle as Nagger
pounded up. Nagger braced his huge frame and held the plunging stallion. But
the saddle slipped a little, the cinches cracked. Slone eased the strain by
wheeling after Wildfire.

The horses had worked away from the fire, and Wildfire, free of the
stifling smoke, began to break and lunge and pitch, plunging round Nagger in
a circle, running blindly, but with unerring scent. Slone, by masterly
horsemanship, easily avoided the rushes, and made a pivot of Nagger, round
which the wild horse dashed in his frenzy. It seemed that he no longer tried
to free himself. He lunged to kill.

"Steady, Nagger, old boy!" Slone kept calling. "He'll never get at you...
. If he slips that blinder I'll kill him!"

The stallion was a fiend in his fury, quicker than a panther, wonderful on
his feet, and powerful as an ox. But he was at a disadvantage. He could not
see. And Slone, in his spoken intention to kill Wildfire should the scarf
slip, acknowledged that he never would have a chance to master the stallion.
Wildfire was bigger, faster, stronger than Slone had believed, and as for
spirit, that was a grand and fearful thing to see.

The soft sand in the pass was plowed deep before Wildfire paused in his
mad plunges. He was wet and heaving. His red coat seemed to blaze. His mane
stood up and his ears lay flat.

Slone uncoiled the lassoes from the pommel and slacked them a little.
Wildfire stood up, striking at the air, snorting fiercely. Slone tried to
wheel Nagger in close behind the stallion. Both horse and man narrowly
escaped the vicious hoofs. But Slone had closed in. He took a desperate
chance and spurred Nagger in a single leap as Wildfire reared again. The
horses collided. Slone hauled the lassoes tight. The impact threw Wildfire
off his balance, just as Slone had calculated, and as the stallion plunged
down on four feet Slone spurred Nagger close against him. Wildfire was a
little in the lead. He could only half rear now, for the heaving, moving
Nagger, always against him, jostled him down, and Slone's iron arm hauled on
the short ropes. When Wildfire turned to bite, Slone knocked the vicious nose
back with a long swing of his fist.

Up the pass the horses plunged. With a rider's wild joy Slone saw the long
green-and-gray valley, and the isolated monuments in the distance. There, on
that wide stretch, he would break Wildfire. How marvelously luck had favored
him at the last!

"Run, you red devil!" Slone called. "Drag us around now till you're
done!"

They left the pass and swept out upon the waste of sage. Slone realized,
from the stinging of the sweet wind in his face, that Nagger was being pulled
along at a tremendous pace. The faithful black could never have made the wind
cut so. Lower the wild stallion stretched and swifter he ran, till it seemed
to Slone that death must end that thunderbolt race.

LUCY Bostil had called twice to her father and he had not
answered. He was out at the hitching-rail, with Holley, the rider, and two
other men. If he heard Lucy he gave no sign of it. She had on her chaps and
did not care to go any farther than the door where she stood.

"Wal now, I reckon I could handle the boat an' fetch Creech's hosses
over," said Holley.

Bostil raised an impatient hand, as if to wave aside Holley's
assumption.

Then one of the other two men spoke up. Lucy had seen him before, but did
not know his name.

"Sure there ain't any need to rustle the job. The river hain't showed any
signs of risin' yet. But Creech is worryin'. He allus is worryin' over them
hosses. No wonder! Thet Blue Roan is sure a hoss. Yesterday at two miles he
showed Creech he was a sight faster than last year. The grass is gone over
there. Creech is grainin' his stock these last few days. An' thet's
expensive."

"How about the flat up the canyon?" queried Bostil. "Ain't there any grass
there?"

"Reckon not. It's the dryest spell Creech ever had," replied the other.
"An' if there was grass it wouldn't do him no good. A landslide blocked the
only trail up."

"Bostil, them hosses, the racers special, ought to be brought acrost the
river," said Holley, earnestly. He loved horses and was thinking of them.

"The boat's got to be patched up," replied Bostil, shortly.

It occurred to Lucy that her father was also thinking of Creech's
thoroughbreds, but not like Holley. She grew grave and listened intently.

There was an awkward pause. Creech's rider, whoever he was, evidently
tried to conceal his anxiety. He flicked his boots with a quirt. The boots
were covered with wet mud. Probably he had crossed the river very
recently.

"Wal, when will you have the hosses fetched over?" he asked, deliberately.
"Creech'll want to know."

"Just as soon as the boat's mended," replied Bostil. "I'll put Shugrue on
the job to-morrow."

"Thanks, Bostil. Sure, thet'll be all right. Creech'll be satisfied," said
the rider, as if relieved. Then he mounted, and with his companion trotted
down the lane.

The lean, gray Holley bent a keen gaze upon Bostil. But Bostil did not
notice that; he appeared preoccupied in thought.

"Bostil, the dry winter an' spring here ain't any guarantee thet there
wasn't a lot of snow up in the mountains." Holley's remark startled
Bostil.

"No—it ain't—sure, " he replied.

"An' any mornin' along now we might wake up to hear the Colorado boomin',"
went on Holley, significantly.

Bostil did not reply to that.

"Creech hain't lived over there so many years. What's he know about the
river? An' fer that matter, who knows anythin' sure about thet hell-bent
river?"

Holley opened his lips to speak, hesitated, looked away from Bostil, and
finally said, "No, it sure ain't." Then he turned and walked away, head bent
in sober thought. Bostil came toward the open door where Lucy stood. He
looked somber. At her greeting he seemed startled.

Bostil swore under his breath. "There ain't any riders on the range thet
can be trusted," he said, disgustedly. "They're all the same. They like to
get in a bunch an' jeer each other an' bet. They want mean hosses.
They make good hosses buck. They haven't any use for a hoss thet won't buck.
They all want to give a hoss a rakin' over.... Think of thet fool Van gettin'
throwed by a two-dollar Ute mustang. An' hurt so he can't ride for days! With
them races comin' soon! It makes me sick."

"Dad, weren't you a rider once?" asked Lucy.

"I never was thet kind."

"Van will be all right in a few days."

"No matter. It's bad business. If I had any other rider who could handle
the King I'd let Van go."

"I can get just as much out of the King as Van can," said Lucy,
spiritedly.

"You!" exclaimed Bostil. But there was pride in his glance.

"I know I can."

"You never had any use for Sage King," said Bostil, as if he had been
wronged.

"I love the King a little, and hate him a lot," laughed Lucy.

"Wal, I might let you ride at thet, if Van ain't in shape," rejoined her
father.

"Why not? He can't do any harm. If he or his men get uppish, the worse for
them. Cordts gave his word not to turn a trick till after the races."

"Do you trust him?"

"Yes. But his men might break loose, away from his sight. Especially thet
Dick Sears. He's a bad man. So be watchful whenever you ride out."

As Lucy went down toward the corrals she was thinking deeply. She could
always tell, woman-like. when her father was excited or agitated. She
remembered the conversation between him and Creech's rider. She remembered
the keen glance old Holley had bent upon him. And mostly she remembered the
somber look upon his face. She did not like that. Once, when a little girl,
she had seen it and never forgotten it, nor the thing that it was associated
with—something tragical which had happened in the big room. There had
been loud, angry voices of men—and shots—and then the men carried
out a long form covered with a blanket. She loved her father, but there was a
side to him she feared. And somehow related to that side was his hardness
toward Creech and his intolerance of any rider owning a fast horse and his
obsession in regard to his own racers. Lucy had often tantalized her father
with the joke that if it ever came to a choice between her and his favorites
they would come first. But was it any longer a joke? Lucy felt that she had
left childhood behind with its fun and fancies, and she had begun to look at
life thoughtfully.

Sight of the corrals, however, and of the King prancing around, drove
serious thoughts away. There were riders there, among them Farlane, and they
all had pleasant greetings for her.

Despite her antipathy toward Sage King, Lucy could not gaze at him without
all a rider's glory in a horse. He was sleek, so graceful, so racy, so near
the soft gray of the sage, so beautiful in build and action. Then he was the
kind of a horse that did not have to be eternally watched. He was spirited
and full of life, eager to run, but when Farlane called for him to stand
still he obeyed. He was the kind of a horse that a child could have played
around in safety. He never kicked. He never bit. He never bolted. It was
splendid to see him with Farlane or with Bostil. He did not like Lucy very
well, a fact that perhaps accounted for Lucy's antipathy. For that matter, he
did not like any woman. If he had a bad trait, it came out when Van rode him,
but all the riders, and Bostil, too, claimed that Van was to blame for
that.

Sage King would not kneel for Lucy as Sarchedon did, and he was too high
for her to mount from the ground, so she mounted from a rock. She took to the
road, and then the first trail into the sage, intending to trot him ten or
fifteen miles down into the valley, and give him some fast, warm work on the
return.

The day was early in May and promised to grow hot. There was not a cloud
in the blue sky. The wind, laden with the breath of sage, blew briskly from
the west. All before Lucy lay the vast valley, gray and dusky gray, then
blue, then purple where the monuments stood, and, farther still, dark
ramparts of rock. Lucy had a habit of dreaming while on horseback, a habit
all the riders had tried to break, but she did not give it rein while she
rode Sarchedon, and assuredly now, up on the King, she never forgot him for
an instant. He shied at mockingbirds and pack-rats and blowing blossoms and
even at butterflies; and he did it, Lucy thought, just because he was full of
mischief. Sage King had been known to go steady when there had been reason to
shy. He did not like Lucy and he chose to torment her. Finally he earned a
good dig from a spur, and then, with swift pounding of hoofs, he plunged and
veered and danced in the sage. Lucy kept her temper, which was what most
riders did not do, and by patience and firmness pulled Sage King out of his
prancing back into the trail. He was not the least cross-grained, and, having
had his little spurt, he settled down into easy going.

In an hour Lucy was ten miles or more from home, and farther down in the
valley than she had ever been. In fact, she had never before been down the
long slope to the valley floor. How changed the horizon became! The monuments
loomed up now, dark, sentinel-like, and strange. The first one, a great red
rock, seemed to her some five miles away. It was lofty, straight-sided, with
a green slope at its base. And beyond that the other monuments stretched out
down the valley. Lucy decided to ride as far as the first one before turning
back. Always these monuments had fascinated her, and this was her opportunity
to ride near one. How lofty they were, how wonderfully colored, and how
comely!

Presently, over the left, where the monuments were thicker, and gradually
merged their slopes and lines and bulk into the yellow walls, she saw low,
drifting clouds of smoke.

"Well, what's that, I wonder?" she mused. To see smoke on the horizon in
that direction was unusual, though out toward Durango the grassy benches
would often burn over. And these low clouds of smoke resembled those she had
seen before.

"It's a long way off," she added.

So she kept on, now and then gazing at the smoke. As she grew nearer to
the first monument she was surprised, then amazed, at its height and
surpassing size. It was mountain-high—a grand tower—smooth, worn,
glistening, yellow and red. The trail she had followed petered out in a deep
wash, and beyond that she crossed no more trails. The sage had grown meager
and the greasewoods stunted and dead; and cacti appeared on barren places.
The grass had not failed, but it was not rich grass such as the horses and
cattle grazed upon miles back on the slope. The air was hot down here. The
breeze was heavy and smelled of fire, and the sand was blowing here and
there. She had a sense of the bigness, the openness of this valley, and then
she realized its wildness and strangeness. These lonely, isolated monuments
made the place different from any she had visited. They did not seem mere
standing rocks. They seemed to retreat all the time as she approached, and
they watched her. They interested her, made her curious. What had formed all
these strange monuments? Here the ground was level for miles and miles, to
slope gently up to the bases of these huge rocks. In an old book she had seen
pictures of the Egyptian pyramids, but these appeared vaster, higher, and
stranger, and they were sheerly perpendicular.

Suddenly Sage King halted sharply, shot up his ears, and whistled. Lucy
was startled. That from the King meant something. Hastily, with keen glance
she swept the foreground. A mile on, near the monument, was a small black
spot. It seemed motionless. But the King's whistle had proved it to be a
horse. When Lucy had covered a quarter of the intervening distance she could
distinguish the horse and that there appeared some thing strange about his
position. Lucy urged Sage King into a lope and soon drew nearer. The black
horse had his head down, yet he did not appear to be grazing. He was as still
as a statue. He stood just outside a clump of greasewood and cactus.

Suddenly a sound pierced the stillness. The King jumped and snorted in
fright. For an instant Lucy's blood ran cold, for it was a horrible cry. Then
she recognized it as the neigh of a horse in agony. She had heard crippled
and dying horses utter that long-drawn and blood-curdling neigh. The black
horse had not moved, so the sound could not have come from him. Lucy thought
Sage King acted more excited than the occasion called for. Then remembering
her father's warning, she reined in on top of a little knoll, perhaps a
hundred yards from where the black horse stood, and she bent her keen gaze
forward.

It was a huge, gaunt, shaggy black horse she saw, with the saddle farther
up on his shoulders than it should have been. He stood motionless, as if
utterly exhausted. His forelegs were braced, so that he leaned slightly back.
Then Lucy saw a rope. It was fast to the saddle and stretched down into the
cactus. There was no other horse in sight, nor any living thing. The immense
monument dominated the scene. It seemed stupendous to Lucy, sublime, almost
frightful.

She hesitated. She knew there was another horse, very likely at the other
end of that lasso. Probably a rider had been thrown, perhaps killed.
Certainly a horse had been hurt. Then on the moment rang out the same neigh
of agony, only weaker and shorter. Lucy no longer feared an ambush. That was
a cry which could not be imitated by a man or forced from a horse. There was
probably death, certainly suffering, near at hand. She spurred the King
on.

There was a little slope to descend, a wash to cross, a bench to climb
—and then she rode up to the black horse. Sage King needed harder
treatment than Lucy had ever given him.

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded, pulling him down. Suddenly, as she
felt him tremble, she realized that he was frightened. "That's funny!" Then
when she got him quiet she looked around.

The black horse was indeed huge. His mane, his shaggy flanks, were
lathered as if he had been smeared with heavy soap-suds. He raised his head
to look at her. Lucy, accustomed to horses all her life, saw that this one
welcomed her arrival. But he was almost ready to drop.

Two taut lassoes stretched from the pommel of his saddle down a little
into a depression full of brush and cactus and rocks. Then Lucy saw a red
horse. He was down in a bad position. She heard his low, choking heaves.
Probably he had broken legs or back. She could not bear to see a horse in
pain. She would do what was possible, even to the extent of putting him out
of his misery, if nothing else could be done. Yet she scanned the
surroundings closely, and peered into the bushes and behind the rocks before
she tried to urge Sage King closer. He refused to go nearer, and Lucy
dismounted.

The red horse was partly hidden by overbending brush. He had plunged into
a hole full of cactus. There was a hackamore round his nose and a tight noose
round his neck. The one round his neck was also round his forelegs. And both
lassoes were held taut by the black horse. A torn and soiled rider's scarf
hung limp round the red horse's nose, kept from falling off by the
hackamore.

She gazed around, ran to and fro, glanced down the little slope, and
beyond, but she did not see anything resembling the form of a man. Then she
ran back.

Lucy took another quick look at the red stallion. She did not believe
either his legs or back were hurt. He was just played out and tangled and
tied in the ropes, and could not get up. The shaggy black horse stood there
braced and indomitable. But he, likewise, was almost ready to drop. Looking
at the condition of both horses and the saddle and ropes, Lucy saw what a
fight there had been, and a race! Where was the rider? Thrown, surely, and
back on the trail, perhaps dead or maimed.

Lucy went closer to the stallion so that she could almost touch him. He
saw her. He was nearly choked. Foam and blood wheezed out with his heaves.
She must do something quickly. And in her haste she pricked her arms and
shoulders on the cactus.

She led the black horse closer in, letting the ropes go, slack. The black
seemed as glad of that release as she was. What a faithful brute he looked!
Lucy liked his eyes.

Then she edged down in among the cactus and brush. The red horse no longer
lay in a strained position. He could lift his head. Lucy saw that the noose
still held tight round his neck. Fearlessly she jerked it loose. Then she
backed away, but not quite out of his reach. He coughed and breathed slowly,
with great heaves. Then he snorted.

"You're all right now," said Lucy, soothingly. Slowly she reached a hand
toward his head. He drew it back as far as he could. She stepped around,
closer, and more back of him, and put a hand on him, gently, for an instant.
Then she slipped out of the brush and, untying one lasso from the pommel, she
returned to the horse and pulled it from round his legs. He was free now,
except the hackamore, and that rope was slack. Lucy stood near him, watching
him, talking to him, waiting for him to get up. She could not be sure he was
not badly hurt till he stood up. At first he made no efforts to rise. He
watched Lucy, less fearfully, she imagined. And she never made a move. She
wanted him to see, to understand that she had not hurt him and would not hurt
him. It began to dawn upon her that he was magnificent.

Finally, with a long, slow heave he got to his feet. Lucy led him out of
the hole to open ground. She seemed somehow confident. There occurred to her
only one way to act.

"A little horse sense, as Dad would say," she soliloquized, and then, when
she got him out of the brush, she stood thrilled and amazed.

"Oh, what a wild, beautiful horse! What a giant! He's bigger than the
King. Oh, if Dad could see him!"

The red stallion did not appear to be hurt. The twitching of his muscles
must have been caused by the cactus spikes embedded in him. There were drops
of blood all over one side. Lucy thought she dared to try to pull these
thorns out. She had never in her life been afraid of any horse. Farlane,
Holley, all the riders, and her father, too, had tried to make her realize
the danger in a horse, sooner or later. But Lucy could not help it; she was
not afraid; she believed that the meanest horse was actuated by natural fear
of a man; she was not a man and she had never handled a horse like a man.
This red stallion showed hate of the black horse and the rope that connected
them; he showed some spirit at the repeated blasts of Sage King. But he
showed less fear of her.

Then she walked up to him naturally and spoke softly, and reached a hand
for his shoulder.

"Whoa, Reddy. Whoa now.... There. That's a good fellow. Why, I wouldn't
rope you or hit you. I'm only a girl."

He drew up, made a single effort to jump, which she prevented, and then he
stood quivering, eying her, while she talked soothingly, and patted him and
looked at him in the way she had found infallible with most horses. Lucy
believed horses were like people, or easier to get along with. Presently she
gently pulled out one of the cactus spikes. The horse flinched, but he stood.
Lucy was slow, careful, patient, and dexterous. The cactus needles were loose
and easily removed or brushed off. At length she got him free of them, and
was almost as proud as she was glad. The horse had gradually dropped his
head; he was tired and his spirit was broken.

"Now, what shall I do?" she queried. "I'll take the back trail of these
horses. They certainly hadn't been here long before I saw them. And the rider
may be close. If not I'll take the horses home."

She slipped the noose from the stallion's head, leaving the hackamore,
and, coiling the loose lasso, she hung it over the pommel of the black's
saddle. Then she took up his bridle.

"Come on," she called.

The black followed her, and the stallion, still fast to him by the lasso
Lucy had left tied, trooped behind with bowed head. Lucy was elated. But Sage
King did not like the matter at all. Lucy had to drop the black's bridle and
catch the King, and then ride back to lead the other again.

A broad trail marked the way the two horses had come, and it led off to
the left, toward where the monuments were thickest, and where the great
sections of wall stood, broken and battlemented. Lucy was hard put to it to
hold Sage King, but the horses behind plodded along. The black horse struck
Lucy as being an ugly, but a faithful and wonderful animal. He understood
everything. Presently she tied the bridle she was leading him by to the end
of her own lasso, and thus let him drop back a few yards, which lessened the
King's fretting.

Intent on the trail, Lucy failed to note time or distance till the looming
and frowning monuments stood aloft before her. What weird effect they had!
Each might have been a colossal statue left there to mark the work of the
ages. Lucy realized that the whole vast valley had once been solid rock, just
like the monuments, and through the millions of years the softer parts had
eroded and weathered and blown away—gone with the great sea that had
once been there. But the beauty, the solemnity, the majesty of these
monuments fascinated her most. She passed the first one, a huge square butte,
and then the second, a ragged, thin, double shaft, and then went between two
much alike, reaching skyward in the shape of monstrous mittens. She watched
and watched them, sparing a moment now and then to attend to the trail. She
noticed that she was coming into a region of grass, and faint signs of water
in the draws. She was getting high again, not many miles now from the wall of
rock.

All at once Sage King shied, and Lucy looked down to see a man lying on
the ground. He lay inert. But his eyes were open—dark, staring eyes.
They moved. And he called. But Lucy could not understand him.

In a flash she leaped off the King. She ran to the prostrate man—
dropped to her knees.

"Oh!" she cried. His face was ghastly. "Oh! are you—you badly
hurt?"

"Lift me—my head," he said, faintly.

She raised his head. What a strained, passionate, terrible gaze he bent
upon the horses.

He lifted a long, ragged arm and pulled Lucy down. The action amazed her
equally as his passion of gratitude. He might have been injured, but he had
an arm of iron. Lucy was powerless. She felt her face against his—and
her breast against his. The pounding of his heart was like blows. The first
instant she wanted to laugh, despite her pity. Then the powerful arm—
the contact affected her as nothing ever before. Suppose this crippled rider
had taken her for a boy—She was not a boy! She could not help being
herself. And no man had ever put a hand on her. Consciousness of this brought
shame and anger. She struggled so violently that she freed herself. And he
lay back.

"See here—that's no way to act—to hug—a person," she
cried, with flaming cheeks.

"Boy, I—"

"I'm not a boy. I'm a girl."

"What!"

Lucy tore off her sombrero, which had been pulled far forward, and this
revealed her face fully, and her hair came tumbling down. The rider gazed,
stupefied. Then a faint tinge of red colored his ghastly cheeks.

"A girl!... Why—why 'scuse me, miss. I—I took you—for a
boy."

He seemed so astounded, he looked so ashamed, so scared, and withal, so
haggard and weak, that Lucy immediately recovered her equanimity.

"Sure I'm a girl. But that's no matter.... You've been thrown. Are you
hurt?"

He smiled a weak assent.

"Badly?" she queried. She did not like the way he lay—so limp, so
motionless.

"I'm afraid so. I can't move."

"Oh!... What shall I do?"

"Can you—get me water?" he whispered, with dry lips.

Lucy flew to her horse to get the small canteen she always carried. But
that had been left on her saddle, and she had ridden Van's. Then she gazed
around. The wash she had crossed several times ran near where the rider lay.
Green grass and willows bordered it. She ran down and, hurrying along,
searched for water. There was water in places, yet she had to go a long way
before she found water that was drinkable. Filling her sombrero, she hurried
back to the side of the rider. It was difficult to give him a drink.

"Thanks, miss," he said, gratefully. His voice was stronger and less
hoarse.

"Have you any broken bones?" asked Lucy.

"I don't know. I can't feel much."

"Are you in pain?"

"Hardly. I feel sort of thick."

Lucy, being an intelligent girl, born in the desert and used to its needs,
had not often encountered a situation with which she was unable to cope.

"Let me feel if you have any broken bones.... That arm isn't
broken, I'm positive."

The rider smiled faintly again. How he stared with his strained, dark
eyes! His face showed ghastly through the thin, soft beard and the tan. Lucy
found his right arm badly bruised, but not broken. She made sure his
collar-bones and shoulder-blades were intact. Broken ribs were harder to
locate; still, as he did not feel pain from pressure, she concluded there
were no fractures there. With her assistance he moved his legs, proving no
broken bones there.

"I'm afraid it's my—spine," he said.

"But you raised your head once," she replied. "If your back was—was
broken or injured you couldn't raise your head."

"I think far north of here. I—trailed him—days—
weeks—months. We crossed the great canyon—"

"The Grand Canyon?"

"It must be that."

"The Grand Canyon is down there," said Lucy, pointing. "I live on it....
You've come a long way."

"Hundreds of miles!... Oh, the ground I covered that awful canyon
country!... But I stayed with Wildfire. An' I put a rope on him. An' he got
away.... An' it was a boy—no—a girl who—saved him
for me—an' maybe saved my life, too!"

Lucy looked away from the dark, staring eyes. A light in them confused
her.

"Never mind me. You say you were weak? Have you been ill?"

"No, miss. just starved.... I starved on Wildfire's trail."

Lucy ran to her saddle and got the biscuits out of the pockets of her
coat, and she ran back to the rider.

"Here. I never thought. Oh, you've had a hard time of it! I understand.
That wonderful flame of a horse! I'd have stayed, too. My father was a rider
once. Bostil. Did you ever hear of him?"

"Bostil. The name—I've heard." Then the rider lay thinking, as he
munched a biscuit. "Yes, I remember, but it was long ago. I spent a night
with a wagon-train, a camp of many men and women, religious people, working
into Utah. Bostil had a boat at the crossing of the Fathers."

"Yes, they called the Ferry that."

"I remember well now. They said Bostil couldn't count his horses—
that he was a rich man, hard on riders—an' he'd used a gun more than
once."

Lucy bowed her head. "Yes, that's my dad."

The rider did not seem to see how he had hurt her.

"Here we are talking—wasting time," she said. "I must start home.
You can't be moved. What shall I do?"

Then he turned his face away. Lucy looked closely at him. He was indeed a
beggared rider. His clothes and his boots hung in tatters. He had no hat, no
coat, no vest. His gaunt face bore traces of what might have been a fine,
strong comeliness, but now it was only thin, worn, wan, pitiful, with that
look which always went to a woman's heart. He had the look of a homeless
rider. Lucy had seen a few of his wandering type, and his story was so plain.
But he seemed to have a touch of pride, and this quickened her interest.

"Then I'll do what I think best for you," said Lucy.

First she unsaddled the black Nagger. With the saddle she made a pillow
for the rider's head, and she covered him with the saddle blanket. Before she
had finished this task he turned his eyes upon her. And Lucy felt she would
be haunted. Was he badly hurt, after all? It seemed probable. How strange he
was!

"I'll water the horses—then tie Wildfire here on a double rope.
There's grass."

"But you can't lead him," replied the rider.

"He'll follow me."

"That red devil!" The rider shuddered as he spoke.

Lucy had some faint inkling of what a terrible fight that had been between
man and horse. "Yes; when I found him he was broken. Look at him now."

But the rider did not appear to want to see the stallion. He gazed up at
Lucy, and she saw something in his eyes that made her think of a child. She
left him, had no trouble in watering the horses, and haltered Wildfire among
the willows on a patch of grass. Then she returned.

"I'll go now," she said to the rider.

"Where?"

"Home. I'll come back to-morrow, early, and bring some one to help you
—"

"Girl, if YOU want to help me more—bring me some bread an' meat.
Don't tell any one. Look what a ragamuffin I am.... An' there's Wildfire. I
don't want him seen till I'm—on my feet again. I know riders.... That's
all. If you want to be so good—come."

"I'll come," replied Lucy, simply.

"Thank you. I owe you—a lot.... What did you say your name was?"

"Lucy—Lucy Bostil."

"Oh, I forgot.... Are you sure you tied Wildfire good an' tight?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I'll go now. I hope you'll be better to-morrow."

Lucy hesitated, with her hand on the King's bridle. She did not like to
leave this young man lying there helpless on the desert. But what else could
she do? What a strange adventure had befallen her! At the following thought
that it was not yet concluded she felt a little stir of excitement at her
pulses. She was so strangely preoccupied that she forgot it was necessary for
her to have a step to mount Sage King. She realized it quickly enough when
she attempted it. Then she led him off in the sage till she found a rock.
Mounting, she turned him straight across country, meaning to cut out miles of
travel that would have been necessary along her back-trail. Once she looked
back. The rider was not visible; the black horse, Nagger, was out of sight,
but Wildfire, blazing in the sun, watched her depart.

LUCY BOSTIL could not control the glow of strange excitement
under which she labored, but she could put her mind on the riding of Sage
King. She did not realize, however, that she was riding him under the stress
and spell of that excitement.

She had headed out to make a short cut, fairly sure of her direction, yet
she was not unaware of the fact that she would be lost till she ran across
her trail. That might be easy to miss and time was flying. She put the King
to a brisk trot, winding through the aisles of the sage.

Soon she had left the monument region and was down on the valley floor
again. From time to time she conquered a desire to look back. Presently she
was surprised and very glad to ride into a trail where she saw the tracks she
had made coming out. With much relief she turned Sage King into this trail,
and then any anxiety she had felt left her entirely. But that did not
mitigate her excitement. She eased the King into a long, swinging lope. And
as he warmed to the work she was aroused also. It was hard to hold him in,
once he got out of a trot, and after miles and miles of this, When she
thought best to slow down he nearly pulled her arms off. Still she finally
got him in hand. Then followed miles of soft and rough going, which seemed
long and tedious. Beyond that was the home stretch up the valley, whose
gradual slope could be seen only at a distance. Here was a straight, broad
trail, not too soft nor too hard, and for all the years she could remember
riders had tried out and trained their favorites on that course.

Lucy reached down to assure herself that the cinch was tight, then she
pulled her sombrero down hard, slackened the bridle, and let the King go. He
simply broke his gait, he was so surprised. Lucy saw him trying to look back
at her, as if he could not realize that this young woman rider had given him
a free rein. Perhaps one reason he disliked her had been always and
everlastingly that tight rein. Like the wary horse he was he took to a
canter, to try out what his new freedom meant.

"Say, what's the matter with you?" called Lucy, disdainfully. "Are you
lazy? Or don't you believe I can ride you?"

Whereupon she dug him with her spurs. Sage King snorted. His action
shifted marvelously. Thunder rolled from under his hoofs. And he broke out of
that clattering roar into his fleet stride, where his hoof-beats were swift,
regular, rhythmic.

Lucy rode him with teeth and fists clenched, bending low. After all, she
thought, it was no trick to ride him. In that gait he was dangerous, for a
fall meant death; but he ran so smoothly that riding him was easy and
certainly glorious. He went so fast that the wind blinded her. The trail was
only a white streak in blurred gray. She could not get her breath; the wind
seemed to whip the air away from her. And then she felt the lessening of the
tremendous pace. Sage King had run himself out and the miles were behind her.
Gradually her sight became clear, and as the hot and wet horse slowed down,
satisfied with his wild run, Lucy realized that she was up on the slope only
a few miles from home. Suddenly she thought she saw something dark stir
behind a sage-bush just ahead. Before she could move a hand at the bridle
Sage King leaped with a frantic snort. It was a swerving, nimble, tremendous
bound. He went high. Lucy was unseated, but somehow clung on, and came down
with him, finding the saddle. And it seemed, while in the air, she saw a
long, snaky, whipping loop of rope shoot out and close just where Sage King's
legs had been.

She screamed. The horse broke and ran. Lucy, righting herself, looked back
to see Joel Creech holding a limp lasso. He had tried to rope the King.

The blood of her father was aroused in Lucy. She thought of the horse
—not herself. If the King had not been so keen-sighted, so swift, he
would have gone down with a broken leg. Lucy never in her life had been so
furious.

Joel shook his fist at her and yelled, "I'd 'a' got you—on any other
hoss!"

She did not reply, though she had to fight herself to keep from pulling
her gun and shooting at him. She guided the running horse back into the
trail, rapidly leaving Creech out of sight.

"He's gone crazy, that's sure," said Lucy. "And he means me harm!"

She ran the King clear up to the corrals, and he was still going hard when
she turned down the lane to the barns. Then she pulled him in.

Farlane was there to meet her. She saw no other riders and was glad.

"Wal, Miss Lucy, the King sure looks good," said Farlane, as she jumped
off and flung him the bridle. "He's just had about right, judgin'.... Say,
girl, you're all pale! Oh, say, you wasn't scared of the King, now?"

"No," replied Lucy, panting.

"Wal, what's up, then?" The rider spoke in an entirely different voice,
and into his clear, hazel eyes a little dark gleam shot.

"Joel Creech waylaid me out in the sage—and—and tried to catch
me." Lucy checked herself. It might not do to tell how Joel had tried to
catch her.

"He did? An' you on the King!" Farlane laughed, as if relieved. "Wal, he's
tried thet before. Miss Lucy. But when you was up on the gray—thet
shows Joel's crazy, sure."

"He sure is. Farlane, I—I am mad!"

"Wal, cool off, Miss Lucy. It ain't nothin' to git set up about. An' don't
tell the old man."

"Why not?" demanded Lucy.

"Wal, because he's in a queer sort of bad mood lately. It wouldn't be
safe. He hates them Creeches. So don't tell him."

"Sure I'll keep mum. But if Joel doesn't watch out I'll put a crimp in him
myself."

Lucy hurried away down the lane and entered the house without meeting any
one. In her room she changed her clothes and lay down to rest and think.

Strangely enough, Lucy might never have encountered Joel Creech out in the
sage, for all the thought she gave him. Her mind was busy with the crippled
rider. Who was he? Where was he from? What strange passion he had shown over
the recovery of that wonderful red horse! Lucy could not forget the feeling
of his iron arm when he held her in a kind of frenzied gratitude. A wild
upland rider, living only for a wild horse! How like Indians some of these
riders! Yet this fellow had seemed different from most of the uncouth riders
she had known. He spoke better. He appeared to have had some little
schooling. Lucy did not realize that she was interested in him. She thought
she was sorry for him and interested in the stallion. She began to compare
Wildfire with Sage King, and if she remembered rightly Wildfire, even in his
disheveled state, had appeared a worthy rival of the King. What would Bostil
say at sight of that flame-colored stallion? Lucy thrilled.

Later she left her room to see if the hour was opportune for her plan to
make up a pack of supplies for the rider. Her aunt was busy in the kitchen,
and Bostil had not come in. Lucy took advantage of the moment to tie up a
pack and carry it to her room. Somehow the task pleased her. She recalled the
lean face of the rider. And that recalled his ragged appearance. Why not pack
up an outfit of clothes? Bostil had a stock-room full of such accessories for
his men. Then Lucy, glowing with the thought, hurried to Bostil's stock-room,
and with deft hands and swift judgment selected an outfit for the rider, even
down to a comb and razor. All this she carried quickly to her room, where in
her thoughtfulness she added a bit of glass from a broken mirror, and soap
and a towel. Then she tied up a second pack.

Bostil did not come home to supper, a circumstance that made Lucy's aunt
cross. They ate alone, and, waiting awhile, were rather late in clearing away
the table. After this Lucy had her chance in the dusk of early evening, and
she carried both packs way out into the sage and left them near the
trail.

"Hope a coyote doesn't come along," she said. That possibility, however,
did not worry her as much as getting those packs up on the King. How in the
world would she ever do it?

She hurried back to the house, stealthily keeping to the shadow of the
cottonwoods, for she would have faced an embarrassing situation if she had
met her father, even had he been in a good humor. And she reached the
sitting-room unobserved. The lamps had been lighted and a log blazed on the
hearth. She was reading when Bostil entered.

"Hello, Lucy!" he said.

He looked tired, and Lucy knew he had been drinking, because when he had
been he never offered to kiss her. The strange, somber shade was still on his
face, but it brightened somewhat at sight of her. Lucy greeted him as
always.

"Farlane tells me you handled the King great—better 'n Van has
worked him lately," said Bostil. "But don't tell him I told you."

That was sweet praise from Farlane. "Oh, Dad, it could hardly be true,"
expostulated Lucy. "Both you and Farlane are a little sore at Van now."

"I'm a lot sore," replied Bostil, gruffly.

"Anyway, how did Farlane know how I handled Sage King?" queried Lucy.

"Wal, every hair on a hoss talks to Farlane, so Holley says.... Lucy, you
take the King out every day for a while. Ride him now an' watch out! Joel
Creech was in the village to-day. He sure sneaked when he seen me. He's up to
some mischief."

Lucy did not want to lie and she did not know what to say. Presently
Bostil bade her good night. Lucy endeavored to read, but her mind continually
wandered back to the adventure of the day.

Next morning she had difficulty in concealing her impatience, but luck
favored her. Bostil was not in evidence, and Farlane, for once, could spare
no more time than it took to saddle Sage King. Lucy rode out into the sage,
pretty sure that no one watched her.

She had hidden the packs near the tallest bunch of greasewood along the
trail; and when she halted behind it she had no fear of being seen from the
corrals. She got the packs. The light one was not hard to tie back of the
saddle, but the large one was a very different matter. She decided to carry
it in front. There was a good-sized rock near, upon which she stepped,
leading Sage King alongside; and after an exceedingly trying moment she got
up, holding the pack. For a wonder Sage King behaved well.

Then she started off, holding the pack across her lap, and she tried the
King's several gaits to see which one would lend itself more comfortably to
the task before her. The trouble was that Sage King had no slow gait, even
his walk was fast. And Lucy was compelled to hold him into that. She wanted
to hurry, but that seemed out of the question. She tried to keep from gazing
out toward the monuments, because they were so far away.

How would she find the crippled rider? It flashed into her mind that she
might find him dead, and this seemed horrible. But her common sense persuaded
her that she would find him alive and better. The pack was hard to hold, and
Sage King fretted at the monotonous walk. The hours dragged. The sun grew
hot. And it was noon, almost, when she reached the point where she cut off
the trail to the left. Thereafter, with the monuments standing ever higher,
and the distance perceptibly lessening, the minutes passed less
tediously.

At length she reached the zone of lofty rocks, and found them different,
how, she could not tell. She rode down among them, and was glad when she saw
the huge mittens—her landmarks. At last she espied the green-bordered
wash and the few cedar-trees. Then a horse blazed red against the sage and
another shone black. That sight made Lucy thrill. She rode on, eager now, but
moved by the strangeness of the experience.

Before she got quite close to the cedars she saw a man. He took a few slow
steps out of the shade. His back was bent. Lucy recognized the rider, and in
her gladness to see him on his feet she cried out. Then, when Sage King
reached the spot, Lucy rolled the pack off to the ground.

"Oh, that was a job!" she cried.

The rider looked up with eyes that seemed keener, less staring than she
remembered. "You came?... I was afraid you wouldn't," he said.

Lucy was quick to see that after the first glance at her he was all eyes
for Sage King. She laughed. How like a rider! She watched him, knowing that
presently he would realize what a horse she was riding. She slipped off and
threw the bridle, and then, swiftly untying the second pack, she laid it
down.

The rider, with slow, painful steps and bent back, approached Sage King
and put a lean, strong, brown hand on him, and touched him as if he wished to
feel if he were real. Then he whistled softly. When he turned to Lucy his
eyes shone with a beautiful light.

"It's Sage King, Bostil's favorite," said Lucy.

"Sage King!... He looks it.... But never a wild horse?"

"No."

"A fine horse," replied the rider. "Of course he can run?" This last held
a note of a rider's jealousy.

Lucy laughed. "Run!... The King is Bostil's favorite. He can run away from
any horse in the uplands."

"I'll bet you Wildfire can beat him," replied the rider, with a dark
glance.

"Come on!" cried Lucy, daringly.

Then the rider and girl looked more earnestly at each other. He smiled in
a way that changed his face—brightened out the set hardness.

"I reckon I'll have to crawl," he said, ruefully. "But maybe I can ride in
a few days—if you'll come back again."

His remark brought to Lucy the idea that of course she would hardly see
this rider again after to-day. Even if he went to the Ford, which event was
unlikely, he would not remain there long. The sensation of blankness puzzled
her, and she felt an unfamiliar confusion.

"Yes, but—I—I thought—" Lucy became unaccountably
embarrassed. Suppose this strange rider would be offended. "Your clothes were
—so torn.... And no wonder you were thrown—in those boots! ... So
I thought I'd—"

His look, more than his tone, cut Lucy; and involuntarily she touched his
arm. "Oh, you won't refuse to take them! Please don't!"

At her touch a warmth came into his face. "Take them? I should smile I
will."

He tried to reach down to lift the pack, but as it was obviously painful
for him to bend, Lucy intercepted him.

"But you've had no breakfast," she protested. "Why not eat before you open
that pack?"

"Nope. I'm not hungry.... Maybe I'll eat a little, after I dress up." He
started to walk away, then turned. "Miss Bostil, have you been so good to
every wanderin' rider you happened to run across?"

"Good!" she exclaimed, flushing. She dropped her eyes before his.
"Nonsense.... Anyway, you're the first wandering rider I ever met— like
this."

"Well, you're good," he replied, with emotion. Then he walked away with
slow, stiff steps and disappeared behind the willows in the little
hollow.

Lucy uncoiled the rope on her saddle and haltered Sage King on the best
grass near at hand. Then she opened the pack of supplies, thinking the while
that she must not tarry here long.

"But on the King I can run back like the wind," she mused.

The pack contained dried fruits and meat and staples, also an assortment
of good things to eat that were of a perishable nature, already much the
worse for the long ride. She spread all this out in the shade of a cedar. The
utensils were few—two cups, two pans, and a tiny pot. She gathered
wood, and arranged it for a fire, so that the rider could start as soon as he
came back. He seemed long in coming. Lucy waited, yet still he did not
return. Finally she thought of the red stallion, and started off down the
wash to take a look at him. He was grazing. He had lost some of the dirt and
dust and the bedraggled appearance. When he caught sight of her he lifted his
head high and whistled. How wild he looked! And his whistle was shrill,
clear, strong. Both the other horses answered it. Lucy went on closer to
Wildfire. She was fascinated now.

"If he doesn't know me!" she cried. Never had she been so pleased. She had
expected every sign of savageness on his part, and certainly had not intended
to go near him. But Wildfire did not show fear or hate in his recognition.
Lucy went directly to him and got a hand on him. Wildfire reared a little and
shook a little, but this disappeared presently under her touch. He held his
head very high and watched her with wonderful eyes. Gradually she drew his
head down. Standing before him, she carefully and slowly changed the set of
the hackamore, which had made a welt on his nose. It seemed to have been her
good fortune that every significant move she had made around this stallion
had been to mitigate his pain. Lucy believed he knew this as well as she knew
it. Her theory, an often disputed one, was that horses were as intelligent as
human beings and had just the same fears, likes, and dislikes. Lucy knew she
was safe when she untied the lasso from the strong root where she had
fastened it, and led the stallion down the wash to a pool of water. And she
stood beside him with a hand on his shoulder while he bent his head to sniff
at the water. He tasted it, plainly with disgust. It was stagnant water, full
of vermin. But finally he drank. Lucy led him up the wash to another likely
place, and tied him securely.

When she got back to the camp in the cedars the rider was there, on his
knees, kindling the fire. His clean-shaved face and new apparel made him
vastly different. He was young, and, had he not been so gaunt. he would have
been fine-looking, Lucy thought.

"After a while a fellow loses the feelin' of hunger," he replied. "I
reckon it'll come back quick.... This all looks good."

So they began to eat. Lucy's excitement, her sense of the unreality of
this adventure, in no wise impaired her appetite. She seemed acutely
sensitive to the perceptions of the moment. The shade of the cedars was cool.
And out on the desert she could see the dark smoky veils of heat lifting. The
breeze carried a dry odor of sand and grass. She heard bees humming by. And
all around the great isolated monuments stood up, red tops against the blue
sky. It was a silent, dreaming, impressive place, where she felt unlike
herself.

"I mustn't stay long," she said, suddenly remembering.

"Will you come back—again?" he asked.

The question startled Lucy. "Why—I—I don't know.... Won't you
ride in to the Ford just as soon as you're able?"

"I reckon not."

"But it's the only place where there's people in hundreds of miles. Surely
you won't try to go back the way you came?"

"When Wildfire left that country I left it. We can't back."

"Then you've no people—no one you care for?" she asked, in sweet
seriousness.

"There's no one. I'm an orphan. My people were lost in an Indian massacre
—with a wagon-train crossin' Wyomin'. A few escaped, an' I was one of
the youngsters. I had a tough time, like a stray dog, till I grew up. An'
then I took to the desert."

"Oh, I see. I—I'm sorry," replied Lucy. "But that's not very
different from my dad's story, of his early years.... What will you do
now?"

"I'll stay here till my back straightens out.... Will you ride out
again?"

"Yes," replied Lucy, without looking at him; and she wondered if it were
really she who was speaking.

Then he asked her about the Ford, and Bostil, and the ranches and villages
north, and the riders and horses. Lucy told him everything she knew and could
think of, and, lastly, after waxing eloquent on the horses of the uplands,
particularly Bostil's, she gave him a graphic account of Cordts and Dick
Sears.

"Horse-thieves!" exclaimed the rider, darkly. There was a grimness as well
as fear in his tone. "I've heard of Sears, but not Cordts. Where does this
band hang out?"

"No one knows. Holley says they hide up in the canyon country. None of the
riders have ever tried to track them far. It would be useless. Holley says
there are plateaus of rich grass and great forests. The Ute Indians say that
much, too. But we know little about the wild country."

"Aren't there any hunters at Bostil's Ford?"

"Wild-horse hunters, you mean?"

"No. Bear an' deer hunters."

"There's none. And I suppose that's why we're not familiar with the wild
canyon country. I'd like to ride in there sometime and camp. But our people
don't go in for that. They love the open ranges. No one I know, except a
half-witted boy, ever rode down among these monuments. And how wonderful a
place! It can't be more than twenty miles from home.... I must be going soon.
I'm forgetting Sage King. Did I tell you I was training him for the
races?"

"No, you didn't. What races? Tell me," he replied, with keen interest.

Then Lucy told him about the great passion of her father—about the
long, time-honored custom of free-for-all races, and the great races that had
been run in the past; about the Creeches and their swift horses; about the
rivalry and speculation and betting; and lastly about the races to be run in
a few weeks—races so wonderful in prospect that even the horse-thief,
Cordts, had begged to be allowed to attend.

"I'm going to see the King beat Creech's roan," shouted the rider, with
red in his cheeks and a flash in his eye.

His enthusiasm warmed Lucy's interest, yet it made her thoughtful. Ideas
flashed into her mind. If the rider attended the races he would have that
fleet stallion with him. He could not be separated from the horse that had
cost him so dearly. What would Bostil and Holley and Farlane say at sight of
Wildfire? Suppose Wildfire was to enter the races! It was probable that he
could run away from the whole field—even beat the King. Lucy thrilled
and thrilled. What a surprise it would be! She had the rider's true love of
seeing the unheralded horse win over the favorite. She had for years wanted
to see a horse—and ride a horse—out in front of Sage King. Then
suddenly all these flashing ideas coruscated seemingly into a gleam—a
leaping, radiant, wonderful thought. Irresistibly it burst from her.

"Let me ride your Wildfire in the great race?" she cried,
breathlessly.

His response was instantaneous—a smile that was keen and sweet and
strong, and a proffered hand. Impulsively Lucy clasped that hand with both
hers.

"You don't mean it," she said. "Oh, it's what Auntie would call one of my
wild dreams!... And I'm growing up—they say.... But—Oh, if I
could ride Wildfire against the field in that race.... If I only
could!"

"Oh, if I could ride Wildfire in that race... if I only
could!"

She was on fire with the hope, flushing, tingling. She was unconscious of
her effect upon the rider, who gazed at her with a new-born light in his
eyes.

"You can ride him. I reckon I'd like to see that race just as much as
Bostil or Cordts or any man.... An' see here, girl, Wildfire can beat this
gray racer of your father's."

"Oh!" cried Lucy.

"Wildfire can beat the King," repeated the rider, intensely. "The tame
horse doesn't step on this earth that can run with Wildfire. He's a stallion.
He has been a killer of horses. It's in him to kill. If he ran a race
it would be that instinct in him."

"How can we plan it?" went on Lucy, impulsively. She had forgotten to
withdraw her hands from his. "It must be a surprise—a complete
surprise. If you came to the Ford we couldn't keep it secret. And Dad or
Farlane would prevent me, somehow."

"It's easy. Ride out here as often as you can. Bring a light saddle an'
let me put you up on Wildfire. You'll run him, train him, get him in shape.
Then the day of the races or the night before I'll go in an' hide out in the
sage till you come or send for Wildfire."

"Oh, it'll be glorious," she cried, with eyes like stars. "I know just
where to have you hide. A pile of rocks near the racecourse. There's a spring
and good grass. I could ride out to you just before the big race, and we'd
come back, with me on Wildfire. The crowd always stays down at the end of the
racecourse. Only the starters stay out there.... Oh, I can see Bostil when
that red stallion runs into sight!"

"I reckon so. It's likely to be the grandest ever seen. But Wildfire will
win because he's run wild all his life—an' run to kill other horses ...
.The only question is—CAN you ride him?"

"Yes. I never saw the horse I couldn't ride. Bostil says there are some I
can't ride. Farlane says not. Only two horses have thrown me, the King and
Sarchedon. But that was before they knew me. And I was sort of wild. I can
make your Wildfire love me."

"That's the last part of it I'd ever doubt," replied the rider.
"It's settled, then. I'll camp here. I'll be well in a few days. Then I'll
take Wildfire in hand. You will ride out whenever you have a chance, without
bein' seen. An' the two of us will train the stallion to upset that
race."

"Yes—then—it's settled."

Lucy's gaze was impelled and held by the rider's. Why was he so pale? But
then he had been injured—weakened. This compact between them had
somehow changed their relation. She seemed to have known him long.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Lin Slone," replied the rider.

Then she released her hands. "I must ride in now. If this isn't a dream
I'll come back soon." She led Sage King to a rock and mounted him.

"It's good to see you up there," said Slone. "An' that splendid horse!...
He knows what he is. It'll break Bostil's heart to see that horse beat."

"Dad'll feel bad, but it'll do him good," replied Lucy.

That was the old rider's ruthless spirit speaking out of his daughter's
lips.

Slone went close to the King and, putting a hand on the pommel, he looked
up at Lucy. "Maybe—it is—a dream—an' you won't come back,"
he said, with unsteady voice.

TWO weeks slipped by on the wings of time and opportunity
and achievement, all colored so wonderfully for Lucy, all spelling that
adventure for which she had yearned.

Lucy was riding down into the sage toward the monuments with a whole day
before her. Bostil kept more and more to himself, a circumstance that worried
her, though she thought little about it. Van had taken up the training of the
King; and Lucy had deliberately quarreled with him so that she would be free
to ride where she listed. Farlane nagged her occasionally about her rides
into the sage, insisting that she must not go so far and stay so long. And
after Van's return to work he made her ride Sarchedon.

Things had happened at the Ford which would have concerned Lucy greatly
had she not been over-excited about her own affairs. Some one had ambushed
Bostil in the cottonwoods near his house and had shot at him, narrowly
missing him. Bostil had sworn he recognized the shot as having come from a
rifle, and that he knew to whom it belonged. The riders did not believe this,
and said some boy, shooting at a rabbit or coyote, had been afraid to confess
he had nearly hit Bostil. The riders all said Bostil was not wholly himself
of late. The river was still low. The boat had not been repaired. And
Creech's horses were still on the other side.

These things concerned Lucy, yet they only came and went swiftly through
her mind. She was obsessed by things intimately concerning herself.

"Oh, I oughtn't to go," she said, aloud. But she did not even check
Sarchedon's long swing, his rocking-chair lope. She had said a hundred times
that she ought not go again out to the monuments. For Lin Slone had fallen
despairingly, terribly in love with her.

It was not this, she averred, but the monuments and the beautiful Wildfire
that had woven a spell round her she could not break. She had ridden Wildfire
all through that strange region of monuments and now they claimed something
of her. Just as wonderful was Wildfire's love for her. The great stallion
hated Slone and loved Lucy. Of all the remarkable circumstances she had seen
or heard about a horse, this fact was the most striking. She could do
anything with him. All that savageness and wildness disappeared when she
approached him. He came at her call. He whistled at sight of her. He sent out
a ringing blast of disapproval when she rode away. Every day he tried to bite
or kick Slone, but he was meek under Lucy's touch.

But this morning there came to Lucy the first vague doubt of herself. Once
entering her mind, that doubt became clear. And then she vowed she liked
Slone as she might a brother. And something within her accused her own
conviction. The conviction was her real self, and the accusation was some
other girl lately born in her. Lucy did not like this new person. She was
afraid of her. She would not think of her unless she had to.

The spoken thought—the sound of the words played havoc with Lucy's
self-conscious calmness. She burned. She trembled. She was in a rage with
herself. She spurred Sarchedon into a run and tore through the sage, down
into the valley, running him harder than she should have run him. Then she
checked him, and, penitent, petted him out of all proportion to her
thoughtlessness. The violent exercise only heated her blood and, if anything,
increased this sudden and new torment. Why had she discarded her boy's rider
outfit and chaps for a riding-habit made by her aunt, and one she had scorned
to wear? Some awful, accusing voice thundered in Lucy's burning ears that she
had done this because she was ashamed to face Lin Slone any more in that
costume—she wanted to appear different in his eyes, to look like a
girl. If that shameful suspicion was a fact why was it—-what did it
mean? She could not tell, yet she was afraid of the truth.

All of a sudden Lin Slone stood out clearer in her mental vision—
the finest type of a rider she had ever known—a strong, lithe,
magnificent horseman, whose gentleness showed his love for horses, whose
roughness showed his power—a strange, intense, lonely man in whom she
had brought out pride, gratitude, kindness, passion, and despair. She felt
her heart swell at the realization that she had changed him, made him kinder,
made him divide his love as did her father, made him human, hopeful, longing
for a future unfettered by the toils of desert allurement. She could not
control her pride. She must like him very much. She confessed that, honestly,
without a qualm. It was only bewildering moments of strange agitation and
uncertainty that bothered her. She had refused to be concerned by them until
they had finally impinged upon her peace of mind. Then they accused her; now
she accused herself. She ought not go to meet Lin Slone any more.

"But then—the race!" she murmured. "I couldn't give that up.... And
oh! I'm afraid the harm is done! What can I do?"

After the race—what then? To be sure, all of Bostil's Ford would
know she had been meeting Slone out in the sage, training his horse. What
would people say?

"Dad will simply be radiant, IF he can buy Wildfire—and a fiend if
he can't," she muttered.

Lucy saw that her own impulsiveness had amounted to daring. She had gone
too far. She excused that—for she had a rider's blood—she was
Bostil's girl. But she had, in her wildness and joy and spirit, spent many
hours alone with a rider, to his undoing. She could not excuse that. She was
ashamed. What would he say when she told him she could see him no more? The
thought made her weak. He would accept and go his way—back to that
lonely desert, with only a horse.

"Wildfire doesn't love him!" she said.

And the scarlet fired her neck and cheek and temple. That leap of blood
seemed to release a riot of emotions. What had been a torment became a
torture. She turned Sarchedon homeward, but scarcely had faced that way when
she wheeled him again. She rode slowly and she rode swiftly. The former was
hateful because it held her back—from what she no longer dared think;
the latter was fearful because it hurried her on swiftly, irresistibly to her
fate.

Lin Slone had changed his camp and had chosen a pass high up where the
great walls had began to break into sections. Here there was intimacy with
the sheer cliffs of red and yellow. Wide avenues between the walls opened on
all points of the compass, and that one to the north appeared to be a gateway
down into the valley of monuments. The monuments trooped down into the valley
to spread out and grow isolated in the distance. Slone's camp was in a clump
of cedars surrounding a spring. There was grass and white sage where rabbits
darted in and out.

Lucy did not approach this camp from that roundabout trail which she had
made upon the first occasion of her visiting Slone. He had found an opening
in the wall, and by riding this way into the pass Lucy cut off miles. In
fact, the camp was not over fifteen miles from Bostil's Ford. It was so close
that Lucy was worried lest some horse-tracker should stumble on the trail and
follow her up into the pass.

This morning she espied Slone at his outlook on a high rock that had
fallen from the great walls. She always looked to see if he was there, and
she always saw him. The days she had not come, which were few, he had spent
watching for her there. His tasks were not many, and he said he had nothing
to do but wait for her. Lucy had a persistent and remorseful, yet sweet
memory of Slone at his lonely lookout. Here was a fine, strong, splendid
young man who had nothing to do but watch for her—a waste of precious
hours!

She waved her hand from afar, and he waved in reply. Then as she reached
the cedared part of the pass Slone was no longer visible. She put Sarchedon
to a run up the hard, wind-swept sand, and reached the camp before Slone had
climbed down from his perch.

Lucy dismounted reluctantly. What would he say about the riding-habit that
she wore? She felt very curious to learn, and shyer than ever before, and
altogether different. The skirt made her more of a girl, it seemed.

"Hello, Lin! " she called. There was nothing in her usual greeting to
betray the state of her mind.

"Good mornin'—Lucy," he replied, very slowly. He was looking at her,
she thought, with different eyes. And he seemed changed, too, though he had
long been well, and his tall, lithe rider's form, his lean, strong face, and
his dark eyes were admirable in her sight. Only this morning, all because she
had worn a girl's riding-skirt instead of boy's chaps, everything seemed
different. Perhaps her aunt had been right, after all, and now things were
natural.

Slone gazed so long at her that Lucy could not keep silent. She
laughed.

"How do you like—me—in this?"

"I like you much better," Slone said, bluntly.

"Auntie made this—and she's been trying to get me to ride in
it."

"It changes you, Lucy.... But can you ride as well?"

"I'm afraid not.... What's Wildfire going to think of me?"

"He'll like you better, too.... Lucy, how's the King comin' on?"

"Lin, I'll tell you, if I wasn't as crazy about Wildfire as you are, I'd
say he'll have to kill himself to beat the King," replied Lucy, with
gravity.

"Sometimes I doubt, too," said Slone. "But I only have to look at Wildfire
to get back my nerve.... Lucy, that will be the grandest race ever run!"

"Yes," sighed Lucy.

"What's wrong? Don't you want Wildfire to win?"

"Yes and no. But I'm going to beat the King, anyway.... Bring on your
Wildfire!"

Lucy unsaddled Sarchedon and turned him loose to graze while Slone went
out after Wildfire. And presently it appeared that Lucy might have some
little time to wait. Wildfire had lately been trusted to hobbles, which fact
made it likely that he had strayed.

Lucy gazed about her at the great looming red walls and out through the
avenues to the gray desert beyond. This adventure of hers would soon have an
end, for the day of the races was not far distant, and after that it was
obvious she would not have occasion to meet Slone. To think of never coming
to the pass again gave Lucy a pang. Unconsciously she meant that she would
never ride up here again, because Slone would not be here. A wind always blew
through the pass, and that was why the sand was so clean and hard. To-day it
was a pleasant wind, not hot, nor laden with dust, and somehow musical in the
cedars. The blue smoke from Slone's fire curled away and floated out of
sight. It was lonely, with the haunting presence of the broken walls ever
manifest. But the loneliness seemed full of content. She no longer wondered
at Slone's desert life. That might be well for a young man, during those
years when adventure and daring called him, but she doubted that it would be
well for all of a man's life. And only a little of it ought to be known by a
woman. She saw how the wildness and loneliness and brooding of such a life
would prevent a woman's development. Yet she loved it all and wanted to live
near it, so that when the need pressed her she could ride out into the great
open stretches and see the dark monuments grow nearer and nearer, till she
was under them, in the silent and colored shadows.

Slone returned presently with Wildfire. The stallion shone like a flame in
the sunlight. His fear and hatred of Slone showed in the way he obeyed. Slone
had mastered him, and must always keep the upper hand of him. It had from the
first been a fight between man and beast, and Lucy believed it would always
be so.

But Wildfire was a different horse when he saw Lucy. Day by day evidently
Slone loved him more and tried harder to win a little of what Wildfire showed
at sight of Lucy. Still Slone was proud of Lucy's control over the stallion.
He was just as much heart and soul bent on winning the great race as Lucy
was. She had ridden Wildfire bareback at first, and then they had broken him
to the saddle.

It was serious business, that training of Wildfire, and Slone had peculiar
ideas regarding it. Lucy rode him up and down the pass until he was warm.
Then Slone got on Sarchedon. Wildfire always snorted and showed fight at
sight of Sage King or Nagger, and the stallion Sarchedon infuriated him
because Sarchedon showed fight, too. Slone started out ahead of Lucy, and
then they raced down the long pass. The course was hard-packed sand. Fast as
Sarchedon was, and matchless as a horseman as was Slone, the race was over
almost as soon as it began. Wildfire ran indeed like fire before the wind. He
wanted to run, and the other horse made him fierce. Like a burr Lucy stuck
low over his neck, a part of the horse, and so light he would not have known
he was carrying her but for the repeated calls in his ears. Lucy never
spurred him. She absolutely refused to use spurs on him. This day she ran
away from Slone, and, turning at the end of the two-mile course they had
marked out, she loped Wildfire back. Slone turned with her, and they were
soon in camp. Lucy did not jump off. She was in a transport. Every race
kindled a mounting fire in her. She was scarlet of face, out of breath, her
hair flying. And she lay on Wildfire's neck and hugged him and caressed him
and talked to him in low tones of love.

Slone dismounted and got Sarchedon out of the way, then crossed to where
Lucy still fondled Wildfire. He paused a moment to look at her, but when she
saw him he started again, and came close up to her as she sat the saddle.

"You went past me like a bullet," he said.

"Oh, can't he run!" murmured Lucy.

"Could he beat the King to-day?"

Slone had asked that question every day, more than once.

"Yes, he could—to-day. I know it," replied Lucy. "Oh—I get
so-so excited. I—I make a fool of myself—over him. But to ride
him—going like that—Lin! it's just glorious!"

"You sure can ride him," replied Slone. "I can't see a fault anywhere
—in him—or in your handling him. He never breaks. He goes hard,
but he saves something. He gets mad—fierce—all the time, yet he
wants to go your way. Lucy, I never saw the like of it. Somehow you
an' Wildfire make a combination. You can't be beat."

"I don't care, Lucy," replied Slone, stoutly. "You rode this horse
perfect. I've found fault with you on the King, on your mustangs, an' on this
black horse Sarch. But on Wildfire! You grow there."

"What will Dad say, and Farlane, and Holley, and Van? Oh, I'll crow over
Van," said Lucy. "I'm crazy to ride Wildfire out before all the Indians and
ranchers and riders, before the races, just to show him off, to make them
stare."

"No, Lucy. The best plan is to surprise them all. Enter your horse for the
race, but don't show up till all the riders are at the start."

"Only Auntie. I told her the other day. She had been watching me. She
thought things. So I told her."

"What did she say?" went on Slone, curiously.

"She was mad," replied Lucy. "She scolded me. She said.... But, anyway, I
coaxed her not to tell on me."

"I want to know what she said," spoke up the rider, deliberately.

Lucy blushed, and it was a consciousness of confusion as well as Slone's
tone that made her half-angry.

"She said when I was found out there'd be a—a great fuss at the
Ford. There would be talk. Auntie said I'm now a grown-up girl.... Oh, she
carried on!... Bostil would likely shoot you. And if he didn't some of the
riders would.... Oh, Lin, it was perfectly ridiculous the way Auntie
talked."

"I reckon not," replied Slone. "I'm afraid I've done wrong to let you come
out here.... But I never thought. I'm not used to girls. I'll—I'll
deserve what I get for lettin' you came."

"It is. Why, you've known me only a few days.... Dad would be mad. Like as
not he'd knock you down.... I tell you, Lin, my dad is—is pretty rough.
And just at this time of the races.... And if Wildfire beats the King! ...
Whew!"

"When Wildfire beats the King, not if," corrected Slone.

"Dad will be dangerous," warned Lucy. "Please don't—-don't ask him
that. Then everybody would know I—I—you—-you—"

"That's it. I want everybody at your home to know."

"But it's a little place," flashed Lucy. "Every one knows me. I'm the only
girl. There have been—other fellows who.... And oh! I don't want you
made fun of!"

"Why?" he asked.

Lucy turned away her head without answering. Something deep within her was
softening her anger. She must fight to keep angry; and that was easy enough,
she thought, if she could only keep in mind Slone's opposition to her.
Strangely, she discovered that it had been sweet to find him always governed
by her desire or will.

"Maybe you misunderstand," he began, presently. And his voice was not
steady. "I don't forget I'm only—a beggarly rider. I couldn't have gone
into the Ford at all—I was such a ragamuffin—"

"Don't talk like that!" interrupted Lucy, impatiently.

"Listen," he replied. "My askin' Bostil for you doesn't mean I've any
hope.... It's just I want him an' everybody to know that I asked."

"But Dad—everybody will think that you think there's reason
—why—I—why, you ought to ask," burst out Lucy, with
scarlet face.

"Sure, that's it," he replied.

"But there's no reason. None! Not a reason under the sun," retorted Lucy,
hotly. "I found you out here. I did you a—a little service. We planned
to race Wildfire. And I came out to ride him.... That's all."

"Lin Slone, I'll never forgive you if you ask Dad that," declared Lucy,
with startling force.

"I reckon that's not so important."

"Oh!—so you don't care." Lucy felt herself indeed in a mood not
comprehensible to her. Her blood raced. She wanted to be furious with Slone,
but somehow she could not wholly be so. There was something about him that
made her feel small and thoughtless and selfish. Slone had hurt her pride.
But the thing that she feared and resented and could not understand was the
strange gladness Slone's declaration roused in her. She tried to control her
temper so she could think. Two emotions contended within her—one of
intense annoyance at the thought of embarrassment surely to follow Slone's
action, and the other a vague, disturbing element, all sweet and furious and
inexplicable. She must try to dissuade him from approaching her father.

"Please don't go to Dad." She put a hand on Slone's arm as he stood close
up to Wildfire.

"I reckon I will," he said.

"Lin!" In that word there was the subtle, nameless charm of an intimacy
she had never granted him until that moment. He seemed drawn as if by
invisible wires. He put a shaking hand on hers and crushed her gauntleted
fingers. And Lucy, in the current now of her woman's need to be placated if
not obeyed, pressed her small hand to his. How strange to what lengths a
little submission to her feeling had carried her! Every spoken word, every
movement, seemed to exact more from her. She did not know herself.

"Lin!... Promise not to—speak to Dad!"

"No." His voice rang.

"Don't give me away—don't tell my Dad!"

"What?" he queried, incredulously.

Lucy did not understand what. But his amazed voice, his wide-open eyes of
bewilderment, seemed to aid her into piercing the maze of her own mind. A
hundred thoughts whirled together, and all around them was wrapped the warm,
strong feeling of his hand on hers. What did she mean that he would tell her
father? There seemed to be a deep, hidden self in her. Up out of these depths
came a whisper, like a ray of light, and it said to her that there was more
hope for Lin Slone than he had ever had in one of his wildest dreams.

"Lin, if you tell Dad—then he'll know—and there won't
be any hope for you!" cried Lucy, honestly.

Slone drew back suddenly as if struck, and a spot of dark blood leaped to
his lean face. "No! It seems to me the right way."

"Right or wrong there's no sense in it—because—because. Oh!
can't you see?"

"I see more than I used to," he replied. "I was a fool over a horse. An'
now I'm a fool over a girl.... I wish you'd never found me that day!"

Lucy whirled in the saddle and made Wildfire jump. She quieted him, and,
leaping off, threw the bridle to Slone. "I won't ride your horse in the
race!" she declared with sudden passion. She felt herself shaking all
over.

"Lucy Bostil, I wish I was as sure of Heaven as I am you'll be up on
Wildfire in that race," he said.

"I won't ride your horse."

"MY horse. Oh, I see.... But you'll ride Wildfire."

"I won't."

Slone suddenly turned white, and his eyes flashed dark fire. "You won't be
able to help ridin' him any more than I could help it."

"A lot you know about me, Lin Slone!" returned Lucy, with scorn. "I can be
as—as bull-headed as you, any day."

Slone evidently controlled his temper, though his face remained white. He
even smiled at her.

"You are Bostil's daughter," he said.

"Yes."

"You are blood an' bone, heart an' soul a rider, if any girl ever was.
You're a wonder with a horse—as good as any man I ever saw. You love
Wildfire. An' look—how strange! That wild stallion—that killer of
horses, why he follows you, he whistles for you, he runs like lightnin' for
you; he loves you."

Slone had attacked Lucy in her one weak point. She felt a force rending
her. She dared not look at Wildfire. Yes—all, that was true Slone had
said. How desperately hard to think of forfeiting the great race she knew she
could win!

"Never! I'll never ride your Wildfire again!" she said, very,
low.

"Mine!... So that's the trouble. Well, Wildfire won't be mine when
you ride the race."

"What do you mean?" demanded Lucy. "You'll sell him to Bostil.... Bah! you
couldn't"

Slone's voice rolled out with deep, ringing scorn. And Lucy, her temper
quelled, began to feel the rider's strength, his mastery of the situation,
and something vague, yet splendid about him that hurt her.

Slone strode toward her. Lucy backed against the cedar-tree and could go
no farther. How white he was now! Lucy's heart gave a great, fearful leap,
for she imagined Slone intended to take her in his arms. But he did not.

"When you ride—Wildfire in that—race he'll
be—yours!" said Slone, huskily.

"How can that be?" questioned Lucy, in astonishment.

"I give him to you."

"You—give—Wildfire—to me?" gasped Lucy.

"Yes. Right now."

The rider's white face and dark eyes showed the strain of great and
passionate sacrifice.

"Lin Slone!... I can't—understand you."

"You've got to ride Wildfire in that race. You've got to beat the King...
. So I give Wildfire to you. An' now you can't help but ride him."

"Why—why do you give him—to me?" faltered Lucy.

All her pride and temper had vanished, and she seemed lost in
blankness.

"Because you love Wildfire. An' Wildfire loves you.... If that isn't
reason enough—then... because I love him—as no rider ever loved a
horse.... An' I love you as no man ever loved a girl!"

Slone had never before spoken words of love to Lucy. She dropped her head.
She knew of his infatuation. But he had always been shy except once when he
had been bold, and that had caused a quarrel. With a strange pain at her
breast Lucy wondered why Slone had not spoken that way before? It made as
great a change in her as if she had been born again. It released something. A
bolt shot back in her heart. She knew she was quivering like a leaf, with no
power to control her muscles. She knew if she looked up then Slone might see
the depths of her soul. Even with her hands shutting out the light she
thought the desert around had changed and become all mellow gold and blue and
white, radiant as the moonlight of dreams—and that the monuments soared
above them grandly, and were beautiful and noble, like the revelations of
love and joy to her. And suddenly she found herself sitting at the foot of
the cedar, weeping, with tear-wet hands over her face.

While Slone went for the horse and saddled him Lucy composed herself
outwardly. And she had two very strong desires—one to tell Slone
something, and the other to run. She decided she would do both together.

Slone brought Sarchedon. Lucy put on her gauntlets, and, mounting the
horse, she took a moment to arrange her skirts before she looked down at
Slone. He was now pale, rather than white, and instead of fire in his eyes
there was sadness. Lucy felt the swelling and pounding of her heart—
and a long, delicious shuddering thrill that ran over her.

"Lin, I won't take Wildfire," she said.

"Yes, you will. You can't refuse. Remember he's grown to look to you. It
wouldn't be right by the horse."

"But he's all you have in the world," she protested. Yet she knew any
protestations would be in vain.

"No. I have good old faithful Nagger."

"Would you go try to hunt another wild stallion—like Wildfire?"
asked Lucy, curiously. She was playing with the wonderful sweet consciousness
of her power to render happiness when she chose.

"No more horse-huntin' for me," declared Slone. "An' as for findin' one
like Wildfire—that'd never be."

"Suppose I won't accept him?"

"How could you refuse? Not for me but for Wildfire's sake!... But if you
could be mean an' refuse, why, Wildfire can go back to the desert."

"No!" exclaimed Lucy.

"I reckon so."

Lucy paused a moment. How dry her tongue seemed! And her breathing was
labored! An unreal shimmering gleam shone on all about her. Even the red
stallion appeared enveloped in a glow. And the looming monuments looked down
upon her, paternal, old, and wise, bright with the color of happiness

"Wildfire ought to have several more days' training—then a day of
rest—and then the race," said Lucy, turning again to look at Slone.

A smile was beginning to change the hardness of his face. "Yes, Lucy," he
said.

"And I'll have to ride him?"

"You sure will—if he's ever to beat the King."

Lucy's eyes flashed blue. She saw the crowd—the curious, friendly
Indians—the eager riders—the spirited horses—the face of
her father—and last the race itself, such a race as had never been ran,
so swift, so fierce, so wonderful.

"Then Lin," began Lucy, with a slowly heaving breast, "if I accept
Wildfire will you keep him for me—until... and if I accept him, and
tell you why, will you promise to say—"

"Wait, will you... promise not to say a word—a single word to
me —till after the race?"

"A word—to you! What about?" he queried, wonderingly. Something in
his eyes made Lucy think of the dawn.

"About—the—Because—Why, I'm—I'll accept your
horse."

"Yes," he replied, swiftly.

Lucy settled herself in the saddle and, shortening the bridle, she got
ready to spur Sarchedon into a bolt.

"Lin, I'll accept Wildfire because I love you."

Sarchedon leaped forward. Lucy did not see Slone's face nor hear him
speak. Then she was tearing through the sage, out past the whistling
Wildfire, with the wind sweet in her face. She did not look back.

ALL through May there was an idea, dark and sinister,
growing in Bostil's mind. Fiercely at first he had rejected it as utterly
unworthy of the man he was. But it returned. It would not be denied. It was
fostered by singular and unforeseen circumstances. The meetings with Creech,
the strange, sneaking actions of young Joel Creech, and especially the gossip
of riders about the improvement in Creech's swift horse—these things
appeared to loom larger and larger and to augment in Bostil's mind the
monstrous idea which he could not shake off. So he became brooding and
gloomy.

It appeared to be an indication of his intense preoccupation of mind that
he seemed unaware of Lucy's long trips down into the sage. But Bostil had
observed them long before Holley and other riders had approached him with the
information.

"Let her alone," he growled to his men. "I gave her orders to train the
King. An' after Van got well mebbe Lucy just had a habit of ridin' down
there. She can take care of herself."

To himself, when alone, Bostil muttered: "Wonder what the kid has looked
up now? Some mischief, I'll bet!"

Nevertheless, he did not speak to her on the subject. Deep in his heart he
knew he feared his keen-eyed daughter, and during these days he was glad she
was not in evidence at the hours when he could not very well keep entirely to
himself. Bostil was afraid Lucy might divine what he had on his mind. There
was no one else he cared for. Holley, that old hawk-eyed rider, might see
through him, but Bostil knew Holley would be loyal, whatever he saw.

Toward the end of the month, when Somers returned from horse-hunting,
Bostil put him and Shugrue to work upon the big flatboat down at the
crossing. Bostil himself went down, and he walked—a fact apt to be
considered unusual if it had been noticed.

"Put in new planks," was his order to the men. "An' pour hot tar in the
cracks. Then when the tar dries shove her in... but I'll tell you when."

Every morning young Creech rowed over to see if the boat was ready to take
the trip across to bring his father's horses back. The third morning of work
on the boat Bostil met Joel down there. Joel seemed eager to speak to Bostil.
He certainly was a wild-looking youth.

"Grand, sir—grand!" exclaimed the simple Joel. "Peg is runnin'
faster than last year, but Blue Roan is leavin' her a mile. Dad's goin' to
bet all he has. The roan can't lose this year."

Bostil felt like a bull bayed at by a hound. Blue Roan was a young horse,
and every season he had grown bigger and faster. The King had reached the
limit of his speed. That was great, Bostil knew, and enough to win over any
horse in the uplands, providing the luck of the race fell even. Luck,
however, was a fickle thing.

Joel's simplicity and frankness vanished, and with them his rationality.
He looked queer. His contrasting eyes shot little malignant gleams. He
muttered incoherently, and moved back toward the skiff, making violent
gestures, and his muttering grew to shouting, though still incoherent. He got
in the boat and started to row back over the river.

Bostil made no comment. He strode away from his men down to the river
shore, and, finding a seat on a stone, he studied the slow eddying red
current of the river and he listened. If any man knew the strange and
remorseless Colorado, that man was Bostil. He never made any mistakes in
anticipating what the river was going to do.

And now he listened, as if indeed the sullen, low roar, the murmuring
hollow gurgle, the sudden strange splash, were spoken words meant for his
ears alone. The river was low. It seemed tired out. It was a dirty red in
color, and it swirled and flowed along lingeringly. At times the current was
almost imperceptible; and then again it moved at varying speed. It seemed a
petulant, waiting, yet inevitable stream, with some remorseless end before
it. It had a thousand voices, but not the one Bostil listened to hear.

He plodded gloomily up the trail, resting in the quiet, dark places of the
canyon, loath to climb out into the clear light of day. And once in the
village, Bostil shook himself as if to cast off an evil, ever-present,
pressing spell.

The races were now only a few days off. Piutes and Navajos were camped out
on the sage, and hourly the number grew as more came in. They were building
cedar sunshades. Columns of blue smoke curled up here and there. Mustangs and
ponies grazed everywhere, and a line of Indians extended along the
racecourse, where trials were being held. The village was full of riders,
horse-traders and hunters, and ranchers. Work on the ranges had practically
stopped for the time being, and in another day or so every inhabitant of the
country would be in Bostil's Ford.

Bostil walked into the village, grimly conscious that the presence of the
Indians and riders and horses, the action and color and bustle, the near
approach of the great race-day—these things that in former years had
brought him keen delight and speculation—had somehow lost their tang.
He had changed. Something was wrong in him. But he must go among these
visitors and welcome them as of old; he who had always been the life of these
racing-days must be outwardly the same. And the task was all the harder
because of the pleasure shown by old friends among the Indians and the riders
at meeting him. Bostil knew he had been a cunning horse-trader, but he had
likewise been a good friend. Many were the riders and Indians who owed much
to him. So everywhere he was hailed and besieged, until finally the old
excitement of betting and bantering took hold of him and he forgot his
brooding.

Brackton's place, as always, was a headquarters for all visitors. Macomber
had just come in full of enthusiasm and pride over the horse he had entered,
and he had money to wager. Two Navajo chiefs, called by white men Old Horse
and Silver, were there for the first time in years. They were ready to gamble
horse against horse. Cal Blinn and his riders of Durango had arrived;
likewise Colson, Sticks, and Burthwait, old friends and rivals of
Bostil's.

For a while Brackton's was merry. There was some drinking and much
betting. It was characteristic of Bostil that he would give any odds asked on
the King in a race; and, furthermore, he would take any end of wagers on
other horses. As far as his own horses were concerned he bet shrewdly, but in
races where his horses did not figure he seemed to find fun in the betting,
whether or not he won.

The fact remained, however, that there were only two wagers against the
King, and both were put up by Indians. Macomber was betting on second or
third place for his horse in the big race. No odds of Bostil's tempted
him.

"Say, where's Wetherby?" rolled out Bostil. "He'll back his hoss."

"Wetherby's ridin' over to-morrow," replied Macomber. "But you gotta bet
him two to one."

"See hyar, Bostil," spoke up old Cal Blinn, "you jest wait till I git an
eye on the King's runnin'. Mebbe I'll go you even money."

"An' as fer me, Bostil," said Colson, "I ain't set up yit which hoss I'll
race."

Burthwait, an old rider, came forward to Brackton's desk and entered a
wager against the field that made all the men gasp.

"By George! pard, you ain't a-limpin' along!" ejaculated Bostil,
admiringly, and he put a hand on the other's shoulder.

"Bostil, I've a grand hoss," replied Burthwait. "He's four years old, I
guess, fer he was born wild, an' you never seen him."

"Wild hoss?... Huh!" growled Bostil. "You must think he can run."

"Why, Bostil, a streak of lightnin' ain't anywheres with him."

"Wal, I'm glad to hear it," said Bostil, gruffly. "Brack, how many hosses
entered now for the big race?"

The lean, gray Brackton bent earnestly over his soiled ledger, while the
riders and horsemen round him grew silent to listen.

"Thar's the Sage King by Bostil," replied Brackton. "Blue Roan an' Peg, by
Creech; Whitefoot, by Macomber; Rocks, by Holley; Hoss-shoes, by Blinn; Bay
Charley, by Burthwait. Then thar's the two mustangs entered by Old Hoss an'
Silver—an' last—Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil."

"What's thet last?" queried Bostil.

"Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil," repeated Brackton.

"Has the girl gone an' entered a hoss?"

"She sure has. She came in to-day, regular an' business-like, writ her
name an' her hoss's—here 'tis—an' put up the entrance money."

"Wal, I'll be d—d!" exclaimed Bostil. He was astonished and pleased.
"She said she'd do it. But I didn't take no stock in her talk.... An' the
hoss's name?"

"She sure didn't say," replied Brackton. "Holley an' Van an' some more of
the boys was here. They joked her a little. You oughter seen the look Lucy
give them. But fer once she seemed mum. She jest walked away mysterious
like."

"Lucy's got a pony off some Indian, I reckon," returned Bostil, and he
laughed. "Then thet makes ten hosses entered so far?"

"Right. An' there's sure to be one more. I guess the, track's wide enough
for twelve."

"Wal, Brack, there'll likely be one hoss out in front an' some stretched
out behind," replied Bostil, dryly. "The track's sure wide enough."

"Won't thet be a grand race!" exclaimed an enthusiastic rider. "Wisht I
had about a million to bet!"

"Bostil, I 'most forgot," went on Brackton, "Cordts sent word by the
Piutes who come to-day thet he'd be here sure."

Bostil's face subtly changed. The light seemed to leave it. He did not
reply to Brackton—did not show that he heard the comment on all sides.
Public opinion was against Bostil's permission to allow Cordts and his
horse-thieves to attend the races. Bostil appeared grave, regretful. Yet it
was known by all that in the strangeness and perversity of his rider's nature
he wanted Cordts to see the King win that race. It was his rider's vanity and
defiance in the teeth of a great horse-thief. But no good would come of
Cordts's presence—that much was manifest.

There was a moment of silence. All these men, if they did not fear Bostil,
were sometimes uneasy when near him. Some who were more reckless than
discreet liked to irritate him. That, too, was a rider's weakness.

"Wal, I reckon—soon," replied Bostil, constrainedly, and he turned
away.

By the time he got home all the excitement of the past hour had left him
and gloom again abided in his mind. He avoided his daughter and forgot the
fact of her entering a horse in the race. He ate supper alone, without
speaking to his sister. Then in the dusk he went out to the corrals and
called the King to the fence. There was love between master and horse. Bostil
talked low, like a woman, to Sage King. And the hard old rider's heart was
full and a lump swelled in his throat, for contact with the King reminded him
that other men loved other horses.

Bostil returned to the house and went to his room, where he sat thinking
in the dark. By and by all was quiet. Then seemingly with a wrench he
bestirred himself and did what for him was a strange action. Removing his
boots, he put on a pair of moccasins. He slipped out of the house; he kept to
the flagstone of the walk; he took to the sage till out of the village, and
then he sheered round to the river trail. With the step and sureness and the
eyes of an Indian he went down through that pitch-black canyon to the river
and the ford.

The river seemed absolutely the same as during the day. He peered through
the dark opaqueness of gloom. It moved there, the river he knew, shadowy,
mysterious, murmuring. Bostil went down to the edge of the water, and,
sitting there, he listened. Yes—the voices of the stream were the same.
But after a long time he imagined there was among them an infinitely low
voice, as if from a great distance. He imagined this; he doubted; he made
sure; and then all seemed fancy again. His mind held only one idea and was
riveted round it. He strained his hearing, so long, so intently, that at last
he knew he had heard what he was longing for. Then in the gloom he took to
the trail, and returned home as he had left, stealthily, like an Indian.

But Bostil did not sleep nor rest.

Next morning early he rode down to the river. Somers and Shugrue had
finished the boat and were waiting. Other men were there, curious and eager.
Joel Creech, barefooted and ragged, with hollow eyes and strange actions,
paced the sands.

The boat was lying bottom up. Bostil examined the new planking and the
seams. Then he straightened his form.

"Turn her over," he ordered. "Shove her in. An' let her soak up
to-day."

The men seemed glad and relieved. Joel Creech heard and he came near to
Bostil.

"You'll—you'll fetch Dad's hosses over?" he queried.

"Sure. To-morrow," replied Bostil, cheerily.

Joel smiled, and that smile showed what might have been possible for him
under kinder conditions of life. "Now, Bostil, I'm sorry fer what I said,"
blurted Joel.

"Shut up. Go tell your old man."

Joel ran down to his skiff and, leaping in, began to row vigorously
across. Bostil watched while the workmen turned the boat over and slid it off
the sand-bar and tied it securely to the mooring. Bostil observed that not a
man there saw anything unusual about the river. But, for that matter, there
was nothing to see. The river was the same.

That night when all was quiet in and around the village Bostil emerged
from his house and took to his stealthy stalk down toward the river.

The moment he got out into the night oppression left him. How interminable
the hours had been! Suspense, doubt, anxiety, fear no longer burdened him.
The night was dark, with only a few stars, and the air was cool. A soft wind
blew across his heated face. A neighbor's dog, baying dismally, startled
Bostil. He halted to listen, then stole on under the cottonwoods, through the
sage, down the trail, into the jet-black canyon. Yet he found his way as if
it had been light. In the darkness of his room he had been a slave to his
indecision; now in the darkness of the looming cliffs he was free, resolved,
immutable.

The distance seemed short. He passed out of the narrow canyon, skirted the
gorge over the river, and hurried down into the shadowy amphitheater under
the looming walls.

The boat lay at the mooring, one end resting lightly the sand-bar. With
strong, nervous clutch Bostil felt the knots of the cables. Then he peered
into the opaque gloom of that strange and huge V-shaped split between the
great canyon walls. Bostil's mind had begun to relax from the single idea.
Was he alone? Except for the low murmur of the river there was dead silence
—a silence like no other—a silence which seemed held under
imprisoning walls. Yet Bostil peered long into the shadows. Then he looked
up. The ragged ramparts far above frowned bold and black at a few cold stars,
and the blue of its sky was without the usual velvety brightness. How far it
was up to that corrugated rim! All of a sudden Bostil hated this vast ebony
pit.

He strode down to the water and, sitting upon the stone he had occupied so
often, he listened. He turned his ear up-stream, then down-stream, and to the
side, and again up-stream and listened.

The river seemed the same.

It was slow, heavy, listless, eddying, lingering, moving—the same
apparently as for days past. It splashed very softly and murmured low and
gurgled faintly. It gave forth fitful little swishes and musical tinkles and
lapping sounds. It was flowing water, yet the proof was there of tardiness.
Now it was almost still, and then again it moved on. It was a river of
mystery telling a lie with its low music. As Bostil listened all those soft,
watery sounds merged into what seemed a moaning, and that moaning held a roar
so low as to be only distinguishable to the ear trained by years.

No—the river was not the same. For the voice of its soft moaning
showed to Bostil its meaning. It called from the far north—the north of
great ice-clad peaks beginning to glisten under the nearing sun; of vast
snow-filled canyons dripping and melting; of the crystal brooks suddenly
colored and roiled and filled bank-full along the mountain meadows; of many
brooks plunging down and down, rolling the rocks, to pour their volume into
the growing turbid streams on the slopes. It was the voice of all that widely
separated water spilled suddenly with magical power into the desert river to
make it a mighty, thundering torrent, red and defiled, terrible in its
increasing onslaught into the canyon, deep, ponderous, but swift—the
Colorado in flood.

And as Bostil heard that voice he trembled. What was the thing he meant to
do? A thousand thoughts assailed him in answer and none were clear. A chill
passed over him. Suddenly he felt that the cold stole up from his feet. They
were both in the water. He pulled them out and, bending down, watched the
dim, dark line of water. It moved up and up, inch by inch, swiftly. The river
was on the rise!

Bostil leaped up. He seemed possessed of devils. A rippling hot gash of
blood fired his every vein and tremor after tremor shook him.

"By G—-d! I had it right—she's risin'!" he exclaimed,
hoarsely.

He stared in fascinated certainty at the river. All about it and
pertaining to it had changed. The murmur and moan changed to a low, sullen
roar. The music was gone. The current chafed at its rock-bound confines. Here
was an uneasy, tormented, driven river! The light from the stars shone on
dark, glancing, restless waters, uneven and strange. And while Bostil
watched, whether it was a short time or long, the remorseless, destructive
nature of the river showed itself.

Bostil began to pace the sands. He thought of those beautiful race-horses
across the river.

"It's not too late!" he muttered. "I can get the boat over an' back
—yet!"

He knew that on the morrow the Colorado in flood would bar those horses,
imprison them in a barren canyon, shut them in to starve.

"It'd be hellish!... Bostil, you can't do it. You ain't thet kind of a
man.... Bostil poison a water-hole where hosses loved to drink, or burn over
grass!... What would Lucy think of you?... No, Bostil, you've let spite rule
bad. Hurry now and save them hosses!"

He strode down to the boat. It swung clear now, and there was water
between it and the shore. Bostil laid hold of the cables. As he did so he
thought of Creech and a blackness enfolded him. He forgot Creech's horses.
Something gripped him, burned him—some hard and bitter feeling which he
thought was hate of Creech. Again the wave of fire ran over him, and his huge
hands strained on the cables. The fiend of that fiendish river had entered
his soul. He meant ruin to a man. He meant more than ruin. He meant to
destroy what his enemy, his rival loved. The darkness all about him, the
gloom and sinister shadow of the canyon, the sullen increasing roar of the'
river—these lent their influence to the deed, encouraged him, drove him
onward, fought and strangled the resistance in his heart. As he brooded all
the motives for the deed grew like that remorseless river. Had not his
enemy's son shot at him from ambush? Was not his very life at stake? A
terrible blow must be dealt Creech, one that would crush him or else lend him
manhood enough to come forth with a gun. Bostil, in his torment, divined that
Creech would know who had ruined him. They would meet then, as Bostil had
tried more than once to bring about a meeting. Bostil saw into his soul, and
it was a gulf like this canyon pit where the dark and sullen river raged. He
shrank at what he saw, but the furies of passion held him fast. His hands
tore at the cables. Then he fell to pacing to and fro in the gloom. Every
moment the river changed its voice. In an hour flood would be down. Too late,
then! Bostil again remembered the sleek, slim, racy thoroughbreds—Blue
Roan, a wild horse he had longed to own, and Peg, a mare that had no equal in
the uplands. Where did Bostil's hate of a man stand in comparison with love
of a horse? He began to sweat and the sweat burned him.

"How soon'll Creech hear the river an' know what's comin'?" muttered
Bostil, darkly. And that question showed him how he was lost. All this strife
of doubt and fear and horror were of no use. He meant to doom Creech's
horses. The thing had been unalterable from the inception of the insidious,
hateful idea. It was irresistible. He grew strong, hard, fierce, and
implacable. He found himself. He strode back to the cables. The knots, having
dragged in the water, were soaking wet and swollen. He could not untie them.
Then he cut one strand after another. The boat swung out beyond his
reach.

Instinctively Bostil reached to pull it back.

"My God!... It's goin'!" he whispered. "What have I done?"

He—Bostil—who had made this Crossing of the Fathers more
famous as Bostil's Ford—he—to cut the boat adrift! The thing was
inconceivable.

The roar of the river rose weird and mournful and incessant, with few
breaks, and these were marked by strange ripping and splashing sounds made as
the bulges of water broke on the surface. Twenty feet out the boat floated,
turning a little as it drifted. It seemed loath to leave. It held on the
shore eddy. Hungrily, spitefully the little, heavy waves lapped it. Bostil
watched it with dilating eyes. There! the current caught one end and the
water rose in a hollow splash over the corner. An invisible hand, like a
mighty giant's, seemed to swing the boat out. It had been dark; now it was
opaque, now shadowy, now dim. How swift this cursed river! Was there any way
in which Bostil could recover his boat? The river answered him with hollow,
deep mockery. Despair seized upon him. And the vague shape of the boat,
spectral and instinct with meaning, passed from Bostil's strained gaze.

"So help me God, I've done it!" he groaned, hoarsely. And he staggered
back and sat down. Mind and heart and soul were suddenly and exquisitely
acute to the shame of his act. Remorse seized upon his vitals. He suffered
physical agony, as if a wolf gnawed him internally.

"To hell with Creech an' his hosses, but where do I come in as a man?" he
whispered. And he sat there, arms tight around his knees, locked both
mentally and physically into inaction.

The rising water broke the spell and drove him back. The river was
creeping no longer. It swelled. And the roar likewise swelled. Bostil hurried
across the flat to get to the rocky trail before he was cut off, and the last
few rods he waded in water up to his knees.

"I'll leave no trail there," he muttered, with a hard laugh. It sounded
ghastly to him, like the laugh of the river.

And there at the foot of the rocky trail he halted to watch and listen.
The old memorable boom came to his ears. The flood was coming. For
twenty-three years he had heard the vanguard boom of the Colorado in flood.
But never like this, for in the sound he heard the strife and passion of his
blood, and realized himself a human counterpart of that remorseless river.
The moments passed and each one saw a swelling of the volume of sound. The
sullen roar just below him was gradually lost in a distant roar. A steady
wind now blew through the canyon. The great walls seemed to gape wider to
prepare for the torrent. Bostil backed slowly up the trail as foot by foot
the water rose. The floor of the amphitheater was now a lake of choppy, angry
waves. The willows bent and seethed in the edge of the current. Beyond ran an
uneven, bulging mass that resembled some gray, heavy moving monster. In the
gloom Bostil could see how the river turned a corner of wall and slanted away
from it toward the center, where it rose higher. Black objects that must have
been driftwood appeared on this crest. They showed an instant, then flashed
out of sight. The boom grew steadier, closer, louder, and the reverberations,
like low detonations of thunder, were less noticeable because all sounds were
being swallowed up.

A harder breeze puffed into Bostil's face. It brought a tremendous
thunder, as if all the colossal walls were falling in avalanche. Bostil knew
the crest of the flood had turned the corner above and would soon reach him.
He watched. He listened, but sound had ceased. His cars seemed ringing and
they hurt. All his body felt cold, and he backed up and up, with dead
feet.

The shadows of the canyon lightened. A river-wide froth, like a curtain,
moved down, spreading mushroom-wise before it, a rolling, heaving maelstrom.
Bostil ran to escape the great wave that surged into the amphitheater, up and
up the rocky trail. When he turned again he seemed to look down into hell.
Murky depths, streaked by pale gleams, and black, sinister, changing forms
yawned beneath them. He watched with fixed eyes until once more the feeling
of filled ears left him and an awful thundering boom assured him of
actualities. It was only the Colorado in flood.

BOSTIL slept that night, but his sleep was troubled, and a
strange, dreadful roar seemed to run through it, like a mournful wind over a
dark desert. He was awakened early by a voice at his window. He listened.
There came a rap on the wood.

"Bostil!... Bostil!" It was Holley's voice.

Bostil rolled off the bed. He had slept without removing any apparel
except his boots.

Bostil's face darkened. He was a bad man to oppose—to question at
times. "Holley, you're sure powerful anxious about Creech. Are you his
friend?"

"Naw! I've little use fer Creech," replied Holley. "An' you know thet. But
I hold for his hosses as I would any man's."

"A-huh! An' what's your kick?"

"Nothin'—except you could have fetched them over before the flood
come down. That's all."

The old horse-trader end his right-hand rider looked at each other for a
moment in silence. They understood each other. Then Bostil returned to the
task of pulling on wet boots and Holley went away.

Bostil opened his door and stepped outside. The eastern ramparts of the
desert were bright red with the rising sun. With the night behind him and the
morning cool and bright and beautiful, Bostil did not suffer a pang nor feel
a regret. He walked around under the cottonwoods where the mocking-birds were
singing. The shrill, screeching bray of a burro split the morning stillness,
and with that the sounds of the awakening village drowned that sullen,
dreadful boom of the river. Bostil went in to breakfast.

He encountered Lucy in the kitchen, and he did not avoid her. He could
tell from her smiling greeting that he seemed to her his old self again. Lucy
wore an apron and she had her sleeves rolled up, showing round, strong, brown
arms. Somehow to Bostil she seemed different. She had been pretty, but now
she was more than that. She was radiant. Her blue eyes danced. She looked
excited. She had been telling her aunt something, and that worthy woman
appeared at once shocked and delighted. But Bostil's entrance had caused a
mysterious break in everything that had been going on, except the preparation
of the morning meal.

"Now I rode in on some confab or other, that's sure," said Bostil,
good-naturedly.

"You sure did, Dad," replied Lucy, with a bright smile.

"Wal, let me sit in the game," he rejoined.

"Dad, you can't even ante," said Lucy.

"Jane, what's this kid up to?" asked Bostil, turning to his sister.

"The good Lord only knows!" replied Aunt Jane, with a sigh.

"Kid?... See here, Dad, I'm eighteen long ago. I'm grown up. I can do as I
please, go where I like, and anything.... Why, Dad, I could get—
married."

"Haw! haw!" laughed Bostil. "Jane, hear the girl."

"I hear her, Bostil," sighed Aunt Jane.

"Wal, Lucy, I'd just like to see you fetch some fool love-sick rider
around when I'm feelin' good," said Bostil.

Lucy laughed, but there was a roguish, daring flash in her eyes. "Dad, you
do seem to have all the young fellows scared. Some day maybe one will ride
along—a rider like you used to be—that nobody could bluff.... And
he can have me!"

"A-huh!... Lucy, are you in fun?"

Lucy tossed her bright head, but did not answer.

"Jane, what's got into her?" asked Bostil, appealing to his sister.

"Bostil, she's in fun, of course," declared Aunt Jane. "Still, at that,
there's some sense in what she says. Come to your breakfast, now."

Bostil took his seat at the table, glad that he could once more be amiable
with his women-folk. "Lucy, to-morrow'll be the biggest day Bostil's Ford
ever seen," he said.

Bostil said to himself that he had been used to Lucy's banter, but during
his moody spell of days past he had forgotten how to take her or else she was
different.

"Brackton tells me you've entered a hoss against the field."

"It's an open race, isn't it?"

"Open as the desert, Lucy," he replied. "What's this hoss Wildfire you've
entered?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" taunted Lucy.

"If he's as good as his name you might be in at the finish.... But, Lucy,
my dear, talkin' good sense now—you ain't a-goin' to go up on some
unbroken mustang in this big race?"

"Dad, I'm going to ride a horse."

"But, Lucy, ain't it a risk you'll be takin'—all for fun?"

"Fun!... I'm in dead earnest."

Bostil liked the look of her then. She had paled a little; her eyes
blazed; she was intense. His question had brought out her earnestness, and
straightway Bostil became thoughtful. If Lucy had been a boy she would have
been the greatest rider on the uplands; and even girl as she was, superbly
mounted, she would have been dangerous in any race.

"Wal, I ain't afraid of your handlin' of a hoss, " he said, soberly. "An'
as long as you're in earnest I won't stop you. But, Lucy, no bettin'. I won't
let you gamble."

"Not even with you?" she coaxed.

Bostil stared at the girl. What had gotten into her? "What'll you bet?"
he, queried, with blunt curiosity.

"Dad, I'll go you a hundred dollars in gold that I finish one—two
—three."

Bostil threw back his head to laugh heartily. What a chip of the old block
she was! "Child, there's some fast hosses that'll be back of the King. You'd
be throwin' away money."

Blue fire shone in his daughter's eyes. She meant business, all right, and
Bostil thrilled with pride in her.

"Dad, I'll bet you two hundred, even, that I beat the King!" she
flashed.

"Wal, of all the nerve!" ejaculated Bostil. "No, I won't take you up.
Reckon I never before turned down an even bet. Understand, Lucy, ridin' in
the race is enough for you."

"All right, Dad," replied Lucy, obediently.

At that juncture Bostil suddenly shoved back his plate and turned his face
to the open door. "Don't I hear a runnin' hoss?"

Aunt Jane stopped the noise she was making, and Lucy darted to the door.
Then Bostil heard the sharp, rhythmic hoof-beats he recognized. They
shortened to clatter and pound—then ceased somewhere out in front of
the house.

"It's the King with Van up," said Lucy, from the door. "Dad, Van's jumped
off—he's coming in... he's running. Something has happened.... There
are other horses coming—riders—Indians."

"Wal, Van, I reckon I knowed thet," replied Bostil. "Mebbe I'm gettin'
old, but I can still hear.... Listen."

Lucy tiptoed to the door and turned her head sidewise and slowly bowed it
till she stiffened. Outside were, sounds of birds and horses and men, but
when a lull came it quickly filled with a sullen, low boom.

"Highest flood we—ever seen," said Van.

"You've been down?" queried Bostil, sharply.

"Not to the river," replied Van. "I went as far as—where the gulch
opens—on the bluff. There was a string of Navajos goin' down. An' some
comin' up. I stayed there watchin' the flood, an' pretty soon Somers come up
the trail with Blakesley an' Brack an' some riders.... An' Somers hollered
out, 'The boat's gone!'"

"Gone!" exclaimed Bostil, his loud cry showing consternation.

"Oh, Dad! Oh, Van!" cried Lucy, with eyes wide and lips parted.

"Sure she's gone. An' the whole place down there—where the willows
was an' the sand-bar—it was deep under water."

"What will become of Creech's horses?" asked Lucy, breathlessly.

"My God! ain't it a shame!" went on Bostil, and he could have laughed
aloud at his hypocrisy. He felt Lucy's blue eyes riveted upon his face.

"Thet's what we all was sayin'," went on Van. "While we was watchin' the
awful flood an' listenin' to the deep bum—bum—bum of rollin'
rocks some one seen Creech an' two Piutes leadin' the hosses up thet trail
where the slide was. We counted the hosses—nine. An' we saw the roan
shine blue in the sunlight."

"Piutes with Creech!" exclaimed Bostil, the deep gloom in his eyes
lighting. "By all thet's lucky! Mebbe them Indians can climb the hosses out
of thet hole an' find water an' grass enough."

"Mebbe," replied Van, doubtfully. "Sure them Piutes could if there's a
chance. But there ain't any grass."

"It won't take much grass travelin' by night."

"So lots of the boys say. But the Navajos they shook their heads. An'
Farlane an' Holley, why, they jest held up their hands."

"With them Indians Creech has a chance to get his hosses out," declared
Bostil. He was sure of his sincerity, but he was not certain that his
sincerity was not the birth of a strange, sudden hope. And then he was able
to meet the eyes of his daughter. That was his supreme test.

"It won't be so terrible if he doesn't lose the horses," murmured
Lucy.

"Where's young Joel Creech?" asked Bostil.

"He stayed on this side last night," replied Van. "Fact is, Joel's the one
who first knew the flood was on. Some one said he said he slept in the canyon
last night. Anyway, he's ravin' crazy now. An' if he doesn't do harm to some
one or hisself I'll miss my guess."

"A-huh!" grunted Bostil. "Right you are."

"Dad, can't anything be done to help Creech now?" appealed Lucy, going
close to her father.

Bostil put his arm around her and felt immeasurably relieved to have the
golden head press close to his shoulder. "Child, we can't fly acrost the
river. Now don't you cry about Creech's hosses. They ain't starved yet. It's
hard luck. But mebbe it'll turn out so Creech'll lose only the race. An',
Lucy, it was a dead sure bet he'd have lost thet anyway."

Bostil fondled his daughter a moment, the first time in many a day, and
then he turned to his rider at the door. "Van, how's the King?"

"Wild to run, Bostil, jest plumb wild. There won't be any hoss with the
ghost of a show to-morrow."

Lucy raised her drooping head. "Is that so, Van Sickle?... Listen
here. If you and Sage King don't get more wild running to-morrow than you
ever had I'll never ride again!" With this retort Lucy left the room.

Van stared at the door and then at Bostil. "What'd I say, Bostil?" he
asked, plaintively. "I'm always r'ilin' her."

"Cheer up, Van. You didn't say much. Lucy is fiery these days. She's got a
hoss somewhere an' she's goin' to ride him in the race. She offered to bet on
him—against the King! It certainly beat me all hollow. But see here,
Van. I've a hunch there's a dark hoss goin' to show up in this race. So don't
underrate Lucy an' her mount, whatever he is. She calls him Wildfire. Ever
see him?"

"I sure haven't. Fact is, I haven't seen Lucy for days an' days. As for
the hunch you gave, I'll say I was figurin' Lucy for some real race. Bostil,
she doesn't make a hoss run. He'll run jest to please her. An' Lucy's
lighter 'n a feather. Why, Bostil, if she happened to ride out there on Blue
Roan or some other hoss as fast I'd—I'd jest wilt."

Bostil uttered a laugh full of pride in his daughter. "Wal, she won't show
up on Blue Roan," he replied, with grim gruffness. "Thet's sure as death....
Come on out now. I want a look at the King."

Bostil went into the village. All day long he was so busy with a thousand
and one things referred to him, put on him, undertaken by him, that he had no
time to think. Back in his mind, however, there was a burden of which he was
vaguely conscious all the time. He worked late into the night and slept late
the next morning.

Never in his life had Bostil been gloomy or retrospective on the day of a
race. In the press of matters he had only a word for Lucy, but that earned a
saucy, dauntless look. He was glad when he was able to join the procession of
villagers, visitors, and Indians moving out toward the sage.

The racecourse lay at the foot of the slope, and now the gray and purple
sage was dotted with more horses and Indians, more moving things and colors,
than Bostil had ever seen there before. It was a spectacle that stirred him.
Many fires sent up blue columns of smoke from before the hastily built brush
huts where the Indians cooked and ate. Blankets shone bright in the sun;
burros grazed and brayed; horses whistled piercingly across the slope;
Indians lolled before the huts or talked in groups, sitting and lounging on
their ponies; down in the valley, here and there, were Indians racing, and
others were chasing the wiry mustangs. Beyond this gay and colorful spectacle
stretched the valley, merging into the desert marked so strikingly and
beautifully by the monuments.

Bostil was among the last to ride down to the high bench that overlooked
the home end of the racecourse. He calculated that there were a thousand
Indians and whites congregated at that point, which was the best
vantage-ground to see the finish of a race. And the occasion of his arrival,
for all the gaiety, was one of dignity and importance. If Bostil reveled in
anything it was in an hour like this. His liberality made this event a great
race-day. The thoroughbreds were all there, blanketed, in charge of watchful
riders. In the center of the brow of this long bench lay a huge, flat rock
which had been Bostil's seat in the watching of many a race. Here were
assembled his neighbors and visitors actively interested in the races, and
also the important Indians of both tribes, all waiting for him.

As Bostil dismounted, throwing the bridle to a rider, he saw a face that
suddenly froze the thrilling delight of the moment. A tall, gaunt man with
cavernous black eyes and huge, drooping black mustache fronted him and seemed
waiting. Cordts! Bostil had forgotten. Instinctively Bostil stood on guard.
For years he had prepared himself for the moment when he would come face to
face with this noted horse-thief.

"Bostil, how are you?" said Cordts. He appeared pleasant, and certainly
grateful for being permitted to come there. From his left hand hung a belt
containing two heavy guns.

"Thanks, Bostil. All the same, as I'm your guest I won't pack them,"
returned Cordts, and he hung the belt on the horn of Bostil's saddle. "Some
of my men are with me. They were all right till they got outside of
Brackton's whisky. But now I won't answer for them."

Bostil recognized Hutchinson and Dick Sears, but the others of Cordts's
gang he did not know. They were a hard-looking lot. Hutchinson was a spare,
stoop-shouldered, red-faced, squinty-eyed rider, branded all over with the
marks of a bad man. And Dick Sears looked his notoriety. He was a little knot
of muscle, short and bow-legged, rough in appearance as cactus. He wore a
ragged slouch-hat pulled low down. His face and stubby beard were
dust-colored, and his eyes seemed sullen, watchful. He made Bostil think of a
dusty, scaly, hard, desert rattlesnake. Bostil eyed this right-hand man of
Cordts's and certainly felt no fear of him, though Sears had the fame of
swift and deadly skill with a gun. Bostil felt that he was neither afraid nor
loath to face Sears in gun-play, and he gazed at the little horse-thief in a
manner that no one could mistake. Sears was not drunk, neither was he wholly
free from the unsteadiness caused by the bottle. Assuredly he had no fear of
Bostil and eyed him insolently. Bostil turned away to the group of his riders
and friends, and he asked for his daughter.

"Lucy's over there," said Farlane, pointing to a merry crowd.

Bostil waved a hand to her, and Lucy, evidently mistaking his action, came
forward, leading one of her ponies. She wore a gray blouse with a red scarf,
and a skirt over overalls and boots. She looked pale, but she was smiling,
and there was a dark gleam of excitement in her blue eyes. She did not have
on her sombrero. She wore her hair in a braid, and had a red band tight above
her forehead. Bostil took her in all at a glance. She meant business and she
looked dangerous. Bostil knew once she slipped out of that skirt she could
ride with any rider there. He saw that she had become the center toward which
all eyes shifted. It pleased him. She was his, like her mother, and as
beautiful and thoroughbred as any rider could wish his daughter.

"Lucy, where's your hoss?" he asked, curiously.

"Never you mind, Dad. I'll be there at the finish," she replied.

"Red's your color for to-day, then?" he questioned, as he put a big hand
on the bright-banded head.

She nodded archly.

"Lucy, I never thought you'd flaunt red in your old Dad's face. Red, when
the color of the King is like the sage out yonder. You've gone back on the
King."

"No, Dad, I never was for Sage King, else I wouldn't wear red to-day."

"Child, you sure mean to run in this race—the big one?"

"Sure and certain."

"Wal, the only bitter drop in my cup to-day will be seein' you get beat.
But if you ran second I'll give you a present thet'll make the purse look
sick."

Even the Indian chiefs were smiling. Old Horse, the Navajo, beamed
benignly upon this daughter of the friend of the Indians. Silver, his brother
chieftain, nodded as if he understood Bostil's pride and regret. Some of the
young riders showed their hearts in their eyes. Farlane tried to look
mysterious, to pretend he was in Lucy's confidence.

"Lucy, if you are really goin' to race I'll withdraw my hoss so you can
win," said Wetherby, gallantly.

Bostil's sonorous laugh rolled down the slope.

"Miss Lucy, I sure hate to run a hoss against yours," said old Cal Blinn.
Then Colson, Sticks, Burthwait, the other principals, paid laughing
compliments to the bright-haired girl.

Bostil enjoyed this hugely until he caught the strange intensity of regard
in the cavernous eyes of Cordts. That gave him a shock. Cordts had long
wanted this girl as much probably as he wanted Sage King. There were dark and
terrible stories that stained the name of Cordts. Bostil regretted his
impulse in granting the horse-thief permission to attend the races. Sight of
Lucy's fair, sweet face might inflame this Cordts—this Kentuckian who
had boasted of his love of horses and women. Behind Cordts hung the little
dust-colored Sears, like a coiled snake, ready to strike. Bostil felt stir in
him a long-dormant fire—a stealing along his veins, a passion he
hated.

"Lucy, go back to the women till you're ready to come out on your hoss,"
he said. "An' mind you, be careful to-day!"

He gave her a meaning glance, which she understood perfectly, he saw, and
then he turned to start the day's sport.

The Indian races run in twos and threes, and on up to a number that
crowded the racecourse; the betting and yelling and running; the wild and
plunging mustangs; the heat and dust and pounding of hoofs; the excited
betting; the surprises and defeats and victories, the trial tests of the
principals, jealously keeping off to themselves in the sage; the endless
moving, colorful procession, gaudy and swift and thrilling—all these
Bostil loved tremendously.

But they were as nothing to what they gradually worked up to—the
climax—the great race.

It was afternoon when all was ready for this race, and the sage was bright
gray in the westering sun. Everybody was resting, waiting. The tense quiet of
the riders seemed to settle upon the whole assemblage. Only the thoroughbreds
were restless. They quivered and stamped and tossed their small, fine heads.
They knew what was going to happen. They wanted to run. Blacks, bays, and
whites were the predominating colors; and the horses and mustangs were alike
in those points of race and speed and spirit that proclaimed them
thoroughbreds.

Bostil himself took the covering off his favorite. Sage King was on edge.
He stood out strikingly in contrast with the other horses. His sage-gray body
was as sleek and shiny as satin. He had been trained to the hour. He tossed
his head as he champed the bit, and every moment his muscles rippled under
his fine skin. Proud, mettlesome, beautiful!

Sage King was the favorite in the betting, the Indians, who were ardent
gamblers, plunging heavily on him.

Bostil saddled the horse and was long at the task.

Van stood watching. He was pale and nervous. Bostil saw this.

"Van," he said, "it's your race."

The rider reached a quick hand for bridle and horn, and when his foot
touched the stirrup Sage King was in the air. He came down, springy-quick,
graceful, and then he pranced into line with the other horses.

Bostil waved his hand. Then the troop of riders and racers headed for the
starting-point, two miles up the valley. Macomber and Blinn, with a rider and
a Navajo, were up there as the official starters of the day.

Bostil's eyes glistened. He put a, friendly hand on Cordts's shoulder, an
action which showed the stress of the moment. Most of the men crowded around
Bostil. Sears and Hutchinson hung close to Cordts. And Holley, keeping near
his employer, had keen eyes for other things than horses.

Suddenly he touched Bostil and pointed down the slope. "There's Lucy," he
said. "She's ridin' out to join the bunch."

"Lucy! Where? I'd forgotten my girl!... Where?"

"There," repeated Holly, and he pointed. Others of the group spoke up,
having seen Lucy riding down.

Bostil had the only field-glass there and he was using it. Across the
round, magnified field of vision moved a giant red horse, his mane waving
like a flame. Lucy rode him. They were moving from a jumble of broken rocks a
mile down the slope. She had kept her horse hidden there. Bostil felt an
added stir in his pulse-beat. Certainly he had never seen a horse like this
one. But the distance was long, the glass not perfect; he could not trust his
sight. Suddenly that sight dimmed.

"Holley, I can't make out nothin'," he complained. "Take the glass. Give
me a line on Lucy's mount."

"Boss, I don't need the glass to see that she's up on a HOSS," replied
Holley, as he took the glass. He leveled it, adjusted it to his eyes, and
then looked long. Bostil grew impatient. Lucy was rapidly overhauling the
troop of racers on her way to the post. Nothing ever hurried or excited
Holley.

"Wal, can't you see any better 'n me?" queried Bostil, eagerly.

"Come on, Holl, give us a tip before she gits to the post," spoke up a
rider.

Cordts showed intense eagerness, and all the group were excited. Lucy's
advent, on an unknown horse that even her father could not disparage, was the
last and unexpected addition to the suspense. They all knew that if the horse
was fast Lucy would be dangerous.

Holley at last spoke: "She's up on a wild stallion. He's red, like fire.
He's mighty big—strong. Looks as if he didn't want to go near the
bunch. Lord! what action!... Bostil, I'd say—a great hoss!"

There was a moment's intense silence in the group round Bostil. Holley was
never known to mistake a horse or to be extravagant in judgment or
praise.

But all Bostil could make out was a blur. His eyes were wet. He realized
now that his first sight of Lucy on the strange horse had been clear and
strong, and it was that which had dimmed his eyes.

"Holley, you use the glass—an' tell me what comes off," said Bostil,
as he wiped his eyes with his scarf. He was relieved to find that his sight
was clearing. "My God! if I couldn't see this finish!"

Then everybody watched the close, dark mass of horses and riders down the
valley. And all waited for Holley to speak. "They're linin' up," began the
rider. "Havin' some muss, too, it 'pears.... Bostil, thet red hoss is raisin'
hell! He wants to fight. There! he's up in the air.... Boys, he's a
devil—a hoss-killer like all them wild stallions.... He's plungin' at
the King—strikin'! There! Lucy's got him down. She's handlin' him ...
.Now they've got the King on the other side. Thet's better. But Lucy's hoss
won't stand. Anyway, it's a runnin' start.... Van's got the best position.
Foxy Van!... He'll be leadin' before the rest know the race's on .... Them
Indian mustangs are behavin' scandalous. Guess the red stallion scared 'em.
Now they're all lined up back of the post.... Ah! gun-smoke! They move.... It
looks like a go."

Then Holley was silent, strained. in watching. So were all the watchers
silent. Bostil saw far down the valley a moving, dark line of horses.

"They're off! They're off!" called Holley, thrillingly.

Bostil uttered a deep and booming yell, which rose above the shouts of the
men round him and was heard even in the din of Indian cries. Then as quickly
as the yells had risen they ceased.

Holley stood up on the rock with leveled glass.

"Mac's dropped the flag. It's a sure go. Now!... Van's out there front
—inside. The King's got his stride. Boss, the King's stretchin' out!
... Look! Look! see thet red hoss leap!... Bostil, he's runnin' down the
King! I knowed it. He's like lightnin'. He's pushin' the King over—off
the course! See him plunge! Lord! Lucy can't pull him! She goes up
—down—tossed—but she sticks like a burr. Good, Lucy! Hang
on!... My Gawd, Bostil, the King's thrown! He's down!... He comes up, off the
course. The others flash by.... Van's out of the race!... An',
Bostil—an', gentlemen, there ain't anythin' more to this race but a red
hoss!"

"An', Bostil—an', gentlemen, there ain't
anythin' more to this race but a red hoss!"

Bostil's heart gave a great leap and then seemed to stand still. He was
half cold, half hot.

What a horrible, sickening disappointment. Bostil rolled out a cursing
query. Holley's answer was short and sharp. The King was out! Bostil raved.
He could not see. He could not believe. After all the weeks of preparation,
of excitement, of suspense—only this! There was no race. The King was
out! The thing did not seem possible. A thousand thoughts flitted through
Bostil's mind. Rage, impotent rage, possessed him. He cursed Van, he swore he
would kill that red stallion. And some one shook him hard. Some one's
incisive words cut into his thick, throbbing ears: "Luck of the game! The
King ain't beat! He's only out!"

Then the rider's habit of mind asserted itself and Bostil began to
recover. For the King to fall was hard luck. But he had not lost the race!
Anguish and pride battled for mastery over him. Even if the King were out it
was a Bostil who would win the great race.

His dimmed sight grew clear and sharp. And with a gasp he saw the moving,
dark line take shape as horses. A bright horse was in the lead. Brighter and
larger he grew. Swiftly and more swiftly he came on. The bright color changed
to red. Bostil heard Holley calling and Cordts calling—and other
voices, but he did not distinguish what was said. The line of horses began to
bob, to bunch. The race looked close, despite what Holley had said. The
Indians were beginning to lean forward, here and there uttering a short,
sharp yell. Everything within Bostil grew together in one great, throbbing,
tingling mass. His rider's eye, keen once more, caught a gleam of gold above
the red, and that gold was Lucy's hair. Bostil forgot the King.

Then Holley bawled into his ear, "They're half-way!"

The race was beautiful. Bostil strained his eyes. He gloried in what he
saw—Lucy low over the neck of that red stallion. He could see plainer
now. They were coming closer. How swiftly! What a splendid race! But it was
too swift—it would not last. The Indians began to yell, drowning the
hoarse shouts of the riders. Out of the tail of his eye Bostil saw Cordts and
Sears and Hutchinson. They were acting like crazy men. Strange that
horse-thieves should care! The million thrills within Bostil coalesced into
one great shudder of rapture. He grew wet with sweat. His stentorian voice
took up the call for Lucy to win.

Bostil never had. His heart swelled. Something shook him. Was that his
girl—that tight little gray burr half hidden in the huge stallion's
flaming mane? The distance had been close between Lucy and the bunched
riders.

But it lengthened. How it widened! That flame of a horse was running away
from the others. And now they were close—coming into the home stretch.
A deafening roar from the onlookers engulfed all other sounds. A straining,
stamping, arm-flinging horde surrounded Bostil.

Bostil saw Lucy's golden hair whipping out from the flame-streaked mane.
And then he could only see that red brute of a horse. Wildfire before the
wind! Bostil thought of the leaping prairie flame, storm-driven.

On came the red stallion—on—on! What a tremendous stride! What
a marvelous recovery! What ease! What savage action!

WILDFIRE ran on down the valley far beyond the yelling crowd
lined along the slope. Bostil was deaf to the throng; he watched the stallion
till Lucy forced him to stop and turn.

Then Bostil whirled to see where Van was with the King. Most of the crowd
surged down to surround the racers, and the yells gave way to the buzz of
many voices. Some of the ranchers and riders remained near Bostil, all
apparently talking at once. Bostil gathered that Holley's Whitefoot had ran
second, and the Navajo's mustang third. It was Holley himself who verified
what Bostil had heard. The old rider's hawk eyes were warm with delight.

"Boss, he run second!" Holley kept repeating.

Bostil had the heart to shake hands with Holley and say he was glad, when
it was on his lips to blurt out there had been no race. Then Bostil's nerves
tingled at sight of Van trotting the King up the course toward the slope.
Bostil watched with searching eyes. Sage King did not appear to be injured.
Van rode straight up the slope and leaped off. He was white and shaking.

The King's glossy hide was dirty with dust and bits of cactus and brush.
He was not even hot. There did not appear to be a bruise or mark on him. He
whinnied and rubbed his face against Bostil, and then, flinching, he swept up
his head, ears high. Both fear and fire shone in his eyes.

"Wal, Van, get it out of your system," said Bostil, kindly. He was a
harder loser before a race was run than after he had lost it.

"Thet red hoss run in on the King before the start an' scared the race out
of him," replied Van, swiftly. "We had a hunch, you know, but at thet Lucy's
hoss was a surprise. I'll say, sir, thet Lucy rode her wild hoss an' handled
him. Twice she pulled him off the King. He meant to kill the King!... Ask any
of the boys.... We got started. I took the lead, sir. The King was in the
lead. I never looked back till I heard Lucy scream. She couldn't pull
Wildfire. He was rushin' the King—meant to kill him. An' Sage King
wanted to fight. If I could only have kept him runnin'! Thet would have been
a race! ... But Wildfire got in closer an' closer. He crowded us. He bit at
the King's flank an' shoulder an' neck. Lucy pulled till I yelled she'd throw
the hoss an' kill us both. Then Wildfire jumped for us. Runnin' an' strikin'
with both feet at once! Bostil, thet hoss's hell! Then he hit us an' down we
went. I had a bad spill. But the King's not hurt an' thet's a blessed
wonder."

"No race, Van! It was hard luck. Take him home," said Bostil.

Van's story of the accident vindicated Bostil's doubts. A new horse had
appeared on the scene, wild and swift and grand, but Sage King was still
unbeaten in a fair race. There would come a reckoning, Bostil grimly
muttered. Who owned this Wildfire?

Holley might as well have read his mind. "Reckon this feller ridin' up
will take down the prize money," remarked Holley, and he pointed to a man who
rode a huge, shaggy, black horse and was leading Lucy's pony.

"A-huh!" exclaimed Bostil. "A strange rider."

"An' here comes Lucy coaxin' the stallion back," added Holley.

"A wild stallion never clear broke!" ejaculated Cordts.

All the men looked and all had some remark of praise for Lucy and her
mount.

Bostil gazed with a strange, irresistible attraction. Never had he
expected to live to see a wild stallion like this one, to say nothing of his
daughter mounted on him, with the record of having put Sage King out of the
race!

A thousand pairs of eyes watched Wildfire. He pranced out there beyond the
crowd of men and horses. He did not want to come closer. Yet he did not seem
to fight his rider. Lucy hung low over his neck, apparently exhausted, and
she was patting him and caressing him. There were horses and Indians on each
side of the race track, and between these lines Lucy appeared reluctant to
come.

Bostil strode down and, waving and yelling for everybody to move back to
the slope, he cleared the way and then stood out in front alone.

"Ride up, now," he called to Lucy.

It was then Bostil discovered that Lucy did not wear a spur and she had
neither quirt nor whip. She turned Wildfire and he came prancing on, head and
mane and tail erect. His action was beautiful, springy, and every few steps,
as Lucy touched him, he jumped with marvelous ease and swiftness.

Bostil became all eyes. He did not see his daughter as she paraded the
winner before the applauding throng. And Bostil recorded in his mind that
which he would never forget—a wild stallion, with unbroken spirit; a
giant of a horse, glistening red, with mane like dark-striped, wind-blown
flame, all muscle, all grace, all power; a neck long and slender and arching
to the small, savagely beautiful head; the jaws open, and the thin-skinned,
pink-colored nostrils that proved the Arabian blood; the slanting shoulders
and the deep, broad chest, the powerful legs and knees not too high nor too
low, the symmetrical dark hoofs that rang on the little stones—all
these marks so significant of speed and endurance. A stallion with a
wonderful physical perfection that matched the savage, ruthless spirit of the
desert killer of horses!

Lucy waved her hand, and the strange rider to whom Holley had called
attention strode out of the crowd toward Wildfire.

Bostil's gaze took in the splendid build of this lithe rider, the
clean-cut face, the dark eye. This fellow had a shiny, coiled lasso in hand.
He advanced toward Wildfire. The stallion snorted and plunged. If ever Bostil
raw hate expressed by a horse he saw it then. But he seemed to be tractable
to the control of the girl. Bostil swiftly grasped the strange situation.
Lucy had won the love of the savage stallion. That always had been the secret
of her power. And she had hated Sage King because he alone had somehow taken
a dislike to her. Horses were as queer as people, thought Bostil.

The rider walked straight up to the trembling Wildfire. When Wildfire
plunged and reared up and up the rider leaped for the bridle and with an iron
arm pulled the horse down. Wildfire tried again, almost lifting the rider,
but a stinging cut from the lasso made him come to a stand. Plainly the rider
held the mastery.

"Dad!" called Lucy, faintly.

Bostil went forward, close, while the rider held Wildfire. Lucy was as
wan-faced as a flower by moonlight. Her eyes were dark with emotions, fear
predominating. Then for Bostil the half of his heart that was human
reasserted itself. Lucy was only a girl now, and weakening. Her fear, her
pitiful little smile, as if she dared not hope for her father's approval yet
could not help it, touched Bostil to the quick, and he opened his arms. Lucy
slid down into them.

"The hoss's all right an' so's Van," replied Bostil. "Don't cry, Lucy. It
was a fool trick you pulled off, but you did it great. By Gad! you sure was
ridin' thet red devil.... An' say, it's all right with me!"

Lucy did not faint then, but she came near it. Bostil put her down and led
her through the lines of admiring Indians and applauding riders, and left her
with the women.

When he turned again he was in time to see the strange rider mount
Wildfire. It was a swift and hazardous mount, the stallion being in the air.
When he came down he tore the turf and sent it flying, and when he shot up
again he was doubled in a red knot, bristling with fiery hair, a furious wild
beast, mad to throw the rider. Bostil never heard as wild a scream uttered by
a horse. Likewise he had never seen so incomparable a horseman as this
stranger. Indians and riders alike thrilled at a sight which was after their
own hearts. The rider had hooked his long spurs under the horse and now
appeared a part of him. He could not be dislodged. This was not a bucking
mustang, but a fierce, powerful, fighting stallion. No doubt, thought Bostil,
this fight took place every time the rider mounted his horse. It was the sort
of thing riders loved. Most of them would not own a horse that would not
pitch. Bostil presently decided, however, that in the case of this red
stallion no rider in his right senses would care for such a fight, simply
because of the extraordinary strengths, activity, and ferocity of the
stallion.

The riders were all betting the horse would throw the stranger. And
Bostil, seeing the gathering might of Wildfire's momentum, agreed with them.
No horseman could stick on that horse. Suddenly Wildfire tripped in the sage,
and went sprawling in the dust, throwing his rider ahead. Both man and beast
were quick to rise, but the rider had a foot in the stirrup before Wildfire
was under way. Then the horse plunged, ran free, came circling back, and
slowly gave way to the rider's control. Those few moments of frenzied
activity had brought out the foam and the sweat—Wildfire was wet. The
man pulled him in before Bostil and dismounted.

"Sometimes I ride him. then sometimes I don't," he said, with a smile.

Bostil held out his hand. He liked this rider. He would have liked the
frank face, less hard than that of most riders, and the fine, dark eyes,
straight and steady, even if their possessor had not come with the open
sesame to Bostil's regard—a grand, wild horse, and the nerve to ride
him.

"Wal, you rode him longer 'n any of us figgered " said Bostil, heartily
shaking the man's hand. "I'm Bostil. Glad to meet you."

"Utah? How'd you ever get over? Wal, you've got a grand hoss—an' you
put a grand rider up on him in the race.... My girl Lucy—"

Bostil hesitated. His mind was running swiftly. Back of his thoughts
gathered the desire and the determination to get possession of this horse
Wildfire. He had forgotten what he might have said to this stranger under
different circumstances. He looked keenly into Slone's face and saw no fear,
no subterfuge. The young man was honest.

"Bostil, I chased this wild horse days an' weeks an' months, hundreds of
miles—across the canyon an' the river—"

"No!" interrupted Bostil, blankly.

"Yes. I'll tell you how later.... Out here somewhere I caught Wildfire,
broke him as much as he'll ever be broken. He played me out an' got away.
Your girl rode along—saved my horse—an' saved my life, too. I was
in bad shape for days. But I got well—an'—an' then she wanted me
to let her run Wildfire in the big race. I couldn't refuse.... An' it would
have been a great race but for the unlucky accident to Sage King. I'm sorry,
sir."

Bostil laughed as he introduced the horse-thief to Slone. The others
laughed, too, even Cordts joining in. There was much of the old rider
daredevil spirit left in Bostil, and it interested and amused him to see
Cordts and Slone meet. Assuredly Slone had heard of the noted stealer of
horses. The advantage was certainly on Cordts's side, for he was good-natured
and pleasant while Slone stiffened, paling slightly as he faced about to
acknowledge the introduction.

"Howdy, Slone," drawled Cordts, with hand outstretched. "I sure am glad to
meet yuh. I'd like to trade the Sage King for this red stallion!"

A roar of laughter greeted this sally, all but Bostil and Slone joining
in. The joke was on Bostil, and he showed it. Slone did not even smile.

"Howdy, Cordts," he replied. "I'm glad to meet you—so I'll know you
when I see you again."

"Wal, we're all good fellers to-day," interposed Bostil. "An' now let's
ride home an' eat. Slone, you come with me."

The group slowly mounted the slope where the horses waited. Macomber,
Wetherby, Burthwait, Blinn—all Bostil's friends proffered their
felicitations to the young rider, and all were evidently prepossessed with
him.

The sun was low in the west; purple shades were blotting out the gold
lights down the valley; the day of the great races was almost done. Indians
were still scattered here and there in groups; others were turning out the
mustangs; and the majority were riding and walking with the crowd toward the
village.

Bostil observed that Cordts had hurried ahead of the group and now
appeared to be saying something emphatic to Dick Sears and Hutchinson. Bostil
heard Cordts curse. Probably he was arraigning the sullen Sears. Cordts had
acted first rate—had lived up to his word, as Bostil thought he would
do. Cordts and Hutchinson mounted their horses and rode off, somewhat to the
left of the scattered crowd. But Sears remained behind. Bostil thought this
strange and put it down to the surliness of the fellow, who had lost on the
races. Bostil, wishing Sears would get out of his sight, resolved never to
make another blunder like inviting horse-thieves to a race.

All the horses except Wildfire stood in a bunch back on the bench. Sears
appeared to be fussing with the straps on his saddle. And Bostil could not
keep his glance from wandering back to gloat over Wildfire's savage grace and
striking size.

Suddenly there came a halt in the conversation of the men, a curse in
Holley's deep voice, a violent split in the group. Bostil wheeled to see
Sears in a menacing position with two guns leveled low.

"Don't holler!" he called. "An' don't move!"

"What 'n the hell now, Sears?" demanded Bostil.

"I'll bore you if you move—thet's what!" replied Sears. His eyes,
bold, steely, with a glint that Bostil knew, vibrated as he held in sight all
points before him. A vicious little sand-rattlesnake about to strike!

"Holley, turn yer back!" ordered Sears.

The old rider, who stood foremost of the group' instantly obeyed, with
hands up. He took no chances here, for he alone packed a gun. With swift
steps Sears moved, pulled Holley's gun, flung it aside into the sage.

"Shut up!" hissed the horse-thief. He pushed a gun close to Bostil. "I've
always laid fer you! I'm achin' to bore you now. I would but fer scarin' this
hoss. If you yap again I'll kill you, anyhow, an' take a chance!"

All the terrible hate and evil and cruelty and deadliness of his kind
burned in his eyes and stung in his voice.

"Sears, if it's my horse you want you needn't kill Bostil," spoke up
Slone. The contrast of his cool, quiet voice eased the terrible strain.

"Lead him round hyar!" snapped Sears.

Wildfire appeared more shy of the horses back of him than of the men.
Slone was able to lead him, however, to within several paces of Sears. Then
Slone dropped the reins. He still held a lasso which was loosely coiled, and
the loop dropped in front of him as he backed away.

Sears sheathed the left-hand gun. Keeping the group covered with the
other, he moved backward, reaching for the hanging reins. Wildfire snorted,
appeared about to jump. But Sears got the reins. Bostil, standing like a
stone, his companions also motionless, could not help but admire the daring
of this upland horse-thief. How was he to mount that wild stallion? Sears was
noted for two qualities—his nerve before men and his skill with horses.
Assuredly he would not risk an ordinary mount. Wildfire began to suspect
Sears—to look at him instead of the other horses. Then quick as a cat
Sears vaulted into the saddle. Wildfire snorted and lifted his forefeet in a
lunge that meant he would bolt.

Sears in vaulting up had swung the gun aloft. He swept it down, but
waveringly, for Wildfire had begun to rear.

Bostil saw how fatal that single instant would have been for Sears if he
or Holley had a gun.

Something whistled. Bostil saw the leap of Slone's lasso—the
curling, snaky dart of the noose which flew up to snap around Sears. The rope
sung taut. Sears was swept bodily clean from the saddle, to hit the ground in
sodden impact.

Almost swifter than Bostil's sight was the action of Slone—flashing
by—in the air—himself on the plunging horse. Sears shot once,
twice. Then Wildfire bolted as his rider whipped the lasso round the horn.
Sears, half rising, was jerked ten feet. An awful shriek was throttled in his
throat.

A streak of dust on the slope—a tearing, parting line in the
sage!

Bostil stood amazed. The red stallion made short plunges. Slone reached
low for the tripping reins. When he straightened up in the saddle Wildfire
broke wildly into a run.

It was characteristic of Holley that at this thrilling, tragic instant he
walked over into the sage to pick up his gun.

"Throwed a gun on me, got the drop, an' pitched mine away!" muttered
Holley, in disgust. The way he spoke meant that he was disgraced.

"My Gawd! I was scared thet Sears would get the hoss!" rolled out
Bostil.

Holley thought of his gun; Bostil thought of the splendid horse. The
thoughts were characteristic of these riders. The other men, however,
recovering from a horror-broken silence, burst out in acclaim of Slone's
feat.

"Bostil, that rider is worthy of his horse," said Wetherby. "I think Sears
would have bored you. I saw his finger pressing—pressing on the
trigger. Men like Sears can't help but pull at that stage."

"Thet was the quickest trick I ever seen," declared Macomber.

They watched Wildfire run down the slope, out into the valley, with a
streak of rising dust out behind. They all saw when there ceased to be that
peculiar rising of dust. Wildfire appeared to shoot ahead at greater speed.
Then he slowed up. The rider turned him and faced back toward the group,
coming at a stiff gallop. Soon Wildfire breasted the slope, and halted,
snorting, shaking before the men. The lasso was still trailing out behind,
limp and sagging. There was no weight upon it now.

Bostil strode slowly ahead. He sympathized with the tension that held
Slone; he knew why the rider's face was gray, why his lips only moved mutely,
why there was horror in the dark, strained eyes, why the lean, strong hands,
slowly taking up the lasso, now shook like leaves in the wind.

There was only dust on the lasso. But Bostil knew—they all knew that
none the less it had dealt a terrible death to the horse-thief.

Somehow Bostil could not find words for what he wanted to say. He put a
hand on the red stallion—patted his shoulder. Then he gripped Slone
close and hard. He was thinking how he would have gloried in a son like this
young, wild rider. Then he again faced his comrades.

"Fellers, do you think Cordts was in on thet trick?" he queried.

"Nope. Cordts was on the square," replied Holley. "But he must have seen
it comin' an' left Sears to his fate. It sure was a fittin' last ride for a
hoss-thief."

Bostil sent Holley and Farlane on ahead to find Cordts and Hutchinson,
with their comrades, to tell them the fate of Sears, and to warn them to
leave before the news got to the riders.

The sun was setting golden and red over the broken battlements of the
canyons to the west. The heat of the day blew away on a breeze that bent the
tips of the sage-brush. A wild song drifted back from the riders to the fore.
And the procession of Indians moved along, their gay trappings and bright
colors beautiful in the fading sunset light.

When Bostil and, his guests arrived at the corrals, Holley, with Farlane
and other riders, were waiting.

"Boss," said Holley, "Cordts an' his outfit never rid in. They was last
seen by some Navajos headin' for the canyon."

"Thet's good!" ejaculated Bostil, in relief. "Wal boys, look after the
hosses... Slone, just turn Wildfire over to the boys with instructions, an'
feel safe."

Farlane scratched his head and looked dubious. "I'm wonderin' how safe
it'll be fer us."

"I'll look after him," said Slone.

Bostil nodded as if he had expected Slone to refuse to let any rider put
the stallion away for the night. Wildfire would not go into the barn, and
Slone led him into one of the high-barred corrals. Bostil waited, talking
with his friends, until Slone returned, and then they went toward the
house.

"I reckon we couldn't get inside Brack's place now," remarked Bostil. "But
in a case like this I can scare up a drink." Lights from the windows shone
bright through the darkness under the cottonwoods. Bostil halted at the door,
as if suddenly remembering, and he whispered, huskily: "Let's keep the women
from learnin' about Sears—to-night, anyway."

Then he led the way through the big door into the huge living-room. There
were hanging-lights on the walls and blazing sticks on the hearth. Lucy came
running in to meet them. It did not escape Bostil's keen eyes that she was
dressed in her best white dress. He had never seen her look so sweet and
pretty, and, for that matter, so strange. The flush, the darkness of her
eyes, the added something in her face, tender, thoughtful, strong—
these were new. Bostil pondered while she welcomed his guests. Slone, who had
hung back, was last in turn. Lucy greeted him as she had the others. Slone
met her with awkward constraint. The gray had not left his face. Lucy looked
up at him again, and differently.

"What—what has happened?" she asked.

It annoyed Bostil that Slone and all the men suddenly looked blank.

"Why, nothin'," replied Slone, slowly, "'cept I'm fagged out."

Lucy, or any other girl, could have seen that he, was evading the truth.
She flashed a look from Slone to her father.

"Until to-day we never had a big race that something dreadful didn't
happen," said Lucy. "This was my day—my race. And, oh! I wanted it to
pass without—without—"

"Wal, Lucy dear," replied Bostil, as she faltered. "Nothin' came off
thet'd make you feel bad. Young Slone had a scare about his hoss. Wildfire's
safe out there in the corral, an' he'll be guarded like the King an' Sarch.
Slone needs a drink an' somethin' to eat, same as all of us."

Lucy's color returned and her smile, but Bostil noted that, while she was
serving them and brightly responsive to compliments, she gave more than one
steady glance at Slone. She was deep, thought Bostil, and it angered him a
little that she showed interest in what concerned this strange rider.

Then they had dinner, with twelve at table. The wives of Bostil's three
friends had been helping Aunt Jane prepare the feast, and they added to the
merriment. Bostil was not much given to social intercourse—he would
have preferred to be with his horses and riders—but this night he
outdid himself as host, amazed his sister Jane, who evidently thought he
drank too much, and delighted Lucy. Bostil's outward appearance and his
speech and action never reflected all the workings of his mind. No one would
ever know the depth of his bitter disappointment at the outcome of the race.
With Creech's Blue Roan out of the way, another horse, swifter and more
dangerous, had come along to spoil the King's chance. Bostil felt a subtly
increasing covetousness in regard to Wildfire, and this colored all his talk
and action. The upland country, vast and rangy, was for Bostil too small to
hold Sage King and Wildfire unless they both belonged to him. And when old
Cal Blinn gave a ringing toast to Lucy, hoping to live to see her up on
Wildfire in the grand race that must be run with the King, Bostil felt stir
in him the birth of a subtle, bitter fear. At first he mocked it. He—
Bostil—afraid to race! It was a lie of the excited mind. He repudiated
it. Insidiously it returned. He drowned it down—smothered it with
passion. Then the ghost of it remained, hauntingly.

After dinner Bostil with the men went down to Brackton's, where Slone and
the winners of the day received their prizes.

"Why, it's more money than I ever had in my whole life!" exclaimed Slone,
gazing incredulously at the gold.

Bostil was amused and pleased, and back of both amusement and pleasure was
the old inventive, driving passion to gain his own ends.

Bostil was abnormally generous in many ways; monstrously selfish in one
way.

"Slone, I seen you didn't drink none," he said, curiously.

"No; I don't like liquor."

"Do you gamble?"

"I like a little bet—on a race," replied Slone, frankly.

"Wal, thet ain't gamblin'. These fool riders of mine will bet on the
switchin' of a hoss's tail." He drew Slone a little aside from the others,
who were interested in Brackton's delivery of the different prizes. "Slone,
how'd you like to ride for me?"

Slone appeared surprised. "Why, I never rode for any one," he replied,
slowly. "I can't stand to be tied down. I'm a horse-hunter, you know."

Bostil eyed the young man, wondering what he knew about the difficulties
of the job offered. It was no news to Bostil that he was at once the best and
the worst man to ride for in all the uplands.

"Sure, I know. But thet doesn't make no difference," went on Bostil,
persuasively. "If we got along—wal, you'd save some of thet yellow coin
you're jinglin'. A roamin' rider never builds no corral!"

"Thank you, Bostil," replied Slone, earnestly. "I'll think it over. It
would seem kind of tame now to go back to wild-horse wranglin', after I've
caught Wildfire. I'll think it over. Maybe I'll do it, if you're sure I'm
good enough with rope an' horse."

"Wal, by Gawd!" blurted out Bostil. "Holley says he'd rather you throwed a
gun on him than a rope! So would I. An' as for your handlin' a hoss, I never
seen no better."

Slone appeared embarrassed and kept studying the gold coins in his palm.
Some one touched Bostil, who, turning, saw Brackton at his elbow. The other
men were now bantering with the Indians.

"Come now while I've got a minnit," said Brackton, taking up a lantern.
"I've somethin' to show you."

Bostil followed Brackton, and Slone came along. The old man opened a door
into a small room, half full of stores and track. The lantern only dimly
lighted the place.

"Look thar!" And Brackton flashed the light upon a man lying
prostrate.

Bostil recognized the pale face of Joel Creech. "Brack!... What's this? Is
he dead?" Bostil sustained a strange, incomprehensible shock. Sight of a dead
man had never before shocked him.

"Nope, he ain't dead, which if he was might be good for this community,"
replied Brackton. "He's only fallen in a fit. Fust off I reckoned he was
drunk. But it ain't thet."

"Wal, what do you want to show him to me for?" demanded Bostil,
gruffly.

"I reckoned you oughter see him."

"An' why, Brackton?"

Brackton set down the lantern and, pushing Slone outside, said: "Jest a
minnit, son," and then he closed the door. "Joel's been on my hands since the
flood cut him off from home," said Brackton. "An' he's been some trial. But
nobody else would have done nothin' for him, so I had to. I reckon I felt
sorry for him. He cried like a baby thet had lost its mother. Then he gets
wild-lookin' an' raved around. When I wasn't busy I kept an eye on him. But
some of the time I couldn't, an' he stole drinks, which made him wuss. An'
when I seen he was tryin' to sneak one of my guns, I up an' gets suspicious.
Once he said, 'My dad's hosses are goin' to starve, an' I'm goin' to kill
somebody!' He was out of his head an' dangerous. Wal, I was worried some, but
all I could do was lock up my guns. Last night I caught him confabin' with
some men out in the dark, behind the store. They all skedaddled except Joel,
but I recognized Cordts. I didn't like this, nuther. Joel was surly an' ugly.
An' when one of the riders called him he said: 'Thet boat never drifted
off. Fer the night of the flood I went down there myself an' tied the
ropes. They never come untied. Somebody cut them—jest before the
flood—to make sure my dad's hosses couldn't be crossed. Somebody
figgered the river an' the flood. An' if my dad's hosses starve I'm goin' to
kill somebody!'"

Brackton took up the lantern and placed a hand on the door ready to go
out.

"Then a rider punched Joel—I never seen who—an' Joel had a
fit. I dragged him in here. An' as you see, he ain't come to yet."

Lucy eyed him dubiously. "No, I'm not ashamed. But I'm still a little
—afraid."

"I'm harmless, child. I'm a broken man. When you put Sage King out of the
race you broke me."

"Dad, that isn't funny. You make me an—angry when you hint I did
something underhand."

"Wal, you didn't consult me."

"I thought it would be fun to surprise you all. Why, you're always
delighted with a surprise in a race, unless it beats you.... Then, it was my
great and only chance to get out in front of the King. Oh, how grand it'd
have been! Dad, I'd have run away from him the same as the others!"

"No, you wouldn't," declared Bostil.

"Dad, Wildfire can beat the King!"

"Never, girl! Knockin' a good-tempered hoss off his pins ain't beatin' him
in a runnin'-race."

Then father and daughter fought over the old score, the one doggedly,
imperturbably, the other spiritedly, with flashing eyes. It was different
this time, however, for it ended in Lucy saying Bostil would never risk
another race. That stung Bostil, and it cost him an effort to control his
temper.

Lucy readily began the narrative, and she had scarcely started before
Bostil found himself intensely interested. Soon he became absorbed. That was
the most thrilling and moving kind of romance to him, like his rider's
dreams.

"Lucy, you're sure a game kid," he said, fervidly, when she had ended. "I
reckon I don't blame Slone for fallin' in love with you."

"Who said that!" inquired Lucy.

"Nobody. But it's true—ain't it?"

She looked up with eyes as true as ever they were, yet a little sad, he
thought, a little wistful and wondering, as if a strange and grave thing
confronted her.

"Yes, Dad—it's—it's true," she answered, haltingly.

"Wal, you didn't need to tell me, but I'm glad you did."

Bostil meant to ask her then if she in any sense returned the rider's
love, but unaccountably he could not put the question. The girl was as true
as ever—as good as gold. Bostil feared a secret that might hurt him.
just as sure as life was there and death but a step away, some rider, sooner
or later, would win this girl's love. Bostil knew that, hated it, feared it.
Yet he would never give his girl to a beggarly rider. Such a man as Wetherby
ought to win Lucy's hand. And Bostil did not want to know too much at
present; he did not want his swift-mounting animosity roused so soon. Still
he was curious, and, wanting to get the drift of Lucy's mind, he took to his
old habit of teasing.

"Another moonstruck rider!" he said. "Your eyes are sure full moons, Lucy.
I'd be ashamed to trifle with these poor fellers."

"Dad!"

"You're a heartless flirt—same as your mother was before she met
ME."

"I'm not. And I don't believe mother was, either," replied Lucy. It was
easy to strike fire from her.

"Wal, you did dead wrong to ride out there day after day meetin' Slone,
because—young woman—if he ever has the nerve to ask me for you
I'll beat him up bad."

"Then you'd be a brute!" retorted Lucy.

"Wal, mebbe," returned Bostil, secretly delighted and surprised at Lucy's
failure to see through him. But she was looking inward. He wondered what hid
there deep in her. "But I can't stand for the nerve of thet."

"He—he means to—to ask you."

"The h—-.... A-huh!"

Lucy did not catch the slip of tongue. She was flushing now. "He said he'd
never have let me meet him out there alone—unless—he—he
loved me—and as our neighbors and the riders would learn of it
—and talk—he wanted you and them to know he'd asked to—to
marry me."

"Wal, he's a square young man!" ejaculated Bostil, involuntarily. It was
hard for Bostil to hide his sincerity and impulsiveness; much harder than to
hide unworthy attributes. Then he got back on the other track. "That'll make
me treat him decent, so when he rides up to ask for you I'll let him off
with, 'No!"

Lucy dropped her head. Bostil would have given all he had, except his
horses, to feel sure she did not care for Slone.

"Dad—I said—'No'—for myself," she murmured.

This time Bostil did not withhold the profane word of surprise. "... So
he's asked you, then? Wal, wal! When?"

"To-day—out there in the rocks where he waited with Wildfire for me.
He—he—"

Lucy slipped into her father's arms, and her slender form shook. Bostil
instinctively felt what she then needed was her mother. Her mother was dead,
and he was only a rough, old, hard rider. He did not know what to do—
to say. His heart softened and he clasped her close. It hurt him keenly to
realize that he might have been a better, kinder father if it were not for
the fear that she would find him out. But that proved he loved her, craved
her respect and affection.

"Wal, little girl, tell me," he said.

"He—he broke his word to me."

"A-huh! Thet's too bad. An' how did he?"

"He—he—" Lucy seemed to catch her tongue.

Bostil was positive she had meant to tell him something and suddenly
changed her mind. Subtly the child vanished—a woman remained. Lucy sat
up self-possessed once more. Some powerfully impelling thought had
transformed her. Bostil's keen sense gathered that what she would not tell
was not hers to reveal. For herself, she was the soul of simplicity and
frankness.

"Days ago I told him I cared for him, she went on. "But I forbade him to
speak of it to me. He promised. I wanted to wait till after the race—
till after I had found courage to confess to you. He broke his word.... Today
when he put me up on Wildfire he—he suddenly lost his head."

The slow scarlet welled into Lucy's face and her eyes grew shamed, but
bravely she kept facing her father.

"He—he pulled me off—he hugged me—he k-kissed me ...
.Oh, it was dreadful-shameful!... Then I gave him back—some
—something he had given me. And I told him I—I hated him
—and I told him, 'No!'"

"But you rode his hoss in the race," said Bostil.

Lucy bowed her head at that. "I—I couldn't resist!"

Bostil stroked the bright head. What a quandary for a thick-skulled old
horseman! "Wal, it seems to me Slone didn't act so bad, considerin'. You'd
told him you cared for him. If it wasn't for thet!... I remember I did much
the same to your mother. She raised the devil, but I never seen as she cared
any less for me."

"I'll never forgive him," Lucy cried, passionately. "I hate him. A man who
breaks his word in one thing will do it in another."

Bostil sadly realized that his little girl had reached womanhood and love,
and with them the sweet, bitter pangs of life. He realized also that here was
a crisis when a word—an unjust or lying word from him would forever
ruin any hope that might still exist for Slone. Bostil realized this acutely,
but the realization was not even a temptation.

"Wal, listen. I'm bound to confess your new rider is sure swift. An',
Lucy, to-day if he hadn't been as swift with a rope as he is in love—
wal, your old daddy might be dead!"

She grew as white as her dress. "Oh, Dad! I knew something had
happened," she cried, reaching for him.

Then Bostil told her how Dick Sears had menaced him—how Slone had
foiled the horse-thief. He told the story bluntly, but eloquently, with all a
rider's praise. Lucy rose with hands pressed against her breast. When had
Bostil seen eyes like those—dark, shining, wonderful? Ah! he remembered
her mother's once—only once, as a girl.

Then Lucy kissed him and without a word fled from the room.

Bostil stared after her. "D—n me!" he swore, as he threw a boot
against the wall. "I reckon I'll never let her marry Slone, but I just had to
tell her what I think of him!"

SLONE lay wide awake under an open window, watching the
stars glimmer through the rustling foliage of the cottonwoods. Somewhere a
lonesome hound bayed. Very faintly came the silvery tinkle of running
water.

For five days Slone had been a guest of Bostil's, and the whole five days
had been torment.

On the morning of the day after the races Lucy had confronted him. Would
he ever forget her eyes—her voice? "Bless you for saving my dad!" she
had said. "It was brave.... But don't let dad fool you. Don't believe in his
kindness. Above all, don't ride for him! He only wants Wildfire, and if he
doesn't get him he'll hate you!"

That speech of Lucy's had made the succeeding days hard for Slone. Bostil
loaded him with gifts and kindnesses, and never ceased importuning him to
accept his offers. But for Lucy, Slone would have accepted. It was she who
cast the first doubt of Bostil into his mind. Lucy averred that her father
was splendid and good in every way except in what pertained to fast horses;
there he was impossible.

The great stallion that Slone had nearly sacrificed his life to catch was
like a thorn in the rider's flesh. Slone lay there in the darkness, restless,
hot, rolling from side to side, or staring out at the star-studded sky
—miserably unhappy all on account of that horse. Almost he hated him.
What pride he had felt in Wildfire! How he had gloried in the gift of the
stallion to Lucy! Then, on the morning of the race had come that unexpected,
incomprehensible and wild act of which he had been guilty. Yet not to save
his life, his soul, could he regret it! Was it he who had been responsible,
or an unknown savage within him? He had kept his word to Lucy, when day after
day he had burned with love until that fatal moment when the touch of her, as
he lifted her to Wildfire's saddle, had made a madman out of him. He had
swept her into his arms and held her breast to his, her face before him, and
he had kissed the sweet, parting lips till he was blind.

Then he had learned what a little fury she was. Then he learned how he had
fallen, what he had forfeited. In his amaze at himself, in his humility and
shame, he had not been able to say a word in his own defense. She did not
know yet that his act had been ungovernable and that he had not known what he
was doing till too late. And she had finished with: "I'll ride Wildfire in
the race—but I won't have him—and I won't have you!
No!"

She had the steel and hardness of her father.

For Slone, the watching of that race was a blend of rapture and despair.
He lived over in mind all the time between the race and this hour when he lay
there sleepless and full of remorse. His mind was like a racecourse with many
races; and predominating in it was that swift, strange, stinging race of his
memory of Lucy Bostil's looks and actions.

What an utter fool he was to believe she had meant those tender words
when, out there under the looming monuments, she had accepted Wildfire! She
had been an impulsive child. Her scorn and fury that morning of the race had
left nothing for him except footless fancies. She had mistaken love of
Wildfire for love of him. No, his case was hopeless with Lucy, and if it had
not been so Bostil would have made it hopeless. Yet there were things Slone
could not fathom—the wilful, contradictory, proud and cold and
unaccountably sweet looks and actions of the girl. They haunted Slone. They
made him conscious he had a mind and tortured him with his development. But
he had no experience with girls to compare with what was happening now. It
seemed that accepted fact and remembered scorn and cold certainty were
somehow at variance with hitherto unknown intuitions and instincts. Lucy
avoided him, if by chance she encountered him alone. When Bostil or Aunt Jane
or any one else was present Lucy was kind, pleasant, agreeable. What made her
flush red at sight of him and then, pale? Why did she often at table or in
the big living-room softly brush against him when it seemed she could have
avoided that? Many times he had felt some inconceivable drawing power, and
looked up to find her eyes upon him, strange eyes full of mystery, that were
suddenly averted. Was there any meaning attachable to the fact that his room
was kept so tidy and neat, that every day something was added to its comfort
or color, that he found fresh flowers whenever he returned, or a book, or
fruit, or a dainty morsel to eat, and once a bunch of Indian paint-brush,
wild flowers of the desert that Lucy knew he loved? Most of all, it was
Lucy's eyes which haunted Slone—eyes that had changed, darkened, lost
their audacious flash, and yet seemed all the sweeter. The glances he caught,
which he fancied were stolen—and then derided his fancy—thrilled
him to his heart. Thus Slone had spent waking hours by day and night, mad
with love and remorse, tormented one hour by imagined grounds for hope and
resigned to despair the next.

Upon the sixth morning of his stay at Bostil's Slone rose with something
of his former will reasserting itself. He could not remain in Bostil's home
any longer unless he accepted Bostil's offer, and this was not to be thought
of. With a wrench Slone threw off the softening indecision and hurried out to
find Bostil while the determination was hot.

Bostil was in the corral with Wildfire. This was the second time Slone had
found him there. Wildfire appeared to regard Bostil with a much better favor
than he did his master. As Slone noted this a little heat stole along his
veins. That was gall to a rider.

"I like your hoss," said Bostil, with gruff frankness. But a tinge of red
showed under his beard.

"Bostil, I'm sorry I can't take you up on the job," rejoined Slone,
swiftly. "It's been hard for me to decide. You've been good to me. I'm
grateful. But it's time I was tellin' you."

"Why can't you?" demanded Bostil, straightening up with a glint in his big
eyes. It was the first time he had asked Slone that.

"I can't ride for you," replied Slone, briefly.

"Anythin' to do with Lucy?" queried Bostil.

"How so?" returned Slone, conscious of more heat.

"Wal, you was sweet on her an' she wouldn't have you," replied Bostil.

Slone felt the blood swell and boil in his veins. This Bostil could say as
harsh and hard things as repute gave him credit for.

"Yes, I am sweet on Lucy, an' she won't have me," said Slone,
steadily. "I asked her to let me come to you an' tell you I wanted to marry
her. But she wouldn't."

"Wal, it's just as good you didn't come, because I might.... " Bostil
broke off his speech and began again. "You don't lack nerve, Slone. What'd
you have to offer Lucy?"

"Nothin' except—But that doesn't matter," replied Slone, cut to the
quick by Bostil's scorn. "I'm glad you know, an' so much for that."

Bostil turned to look at Wildfire once more, and he looked long. When he
faced around again he was another man. Slone felt the powerful driving
passion of this old horse-trader.

"Slone, I'll give you pick of a hundred mustangs an' a thousand dollars
for Wildfire!"

So he unmasked his power in the face of a beggarly rider! Though it struck
Slone like a thunderbolt, he felt amused. But he did not show that. Bostil
had only one possession, among all his uncounted wealth, that could win
Wildfire from his owner.

The great veins swelled and churned in Bostil's bull neck; a thick and
ugly contortion worked in his face; his eyes reflected a sick rage.

Slone saw that two passions shook Bostil—one, a bitter, terrible
disappointment, and the other, the passion of a man who could not brook being
crossed. It appeared to Slone that the best thing he could do was to get away
quickly, and to this end he led Wildfire out of the corral to the stable
courtyard, and there quickly saddled him. Then he went into another corral
for his other horse, Nagger, and, bringing him out, returned to find Bostil
had followed as far as the court. The old man's rage apparently had passed or
had been smothered.

"See here," he began, in thick voice, "don't be a d—-fool an' ruin
your chance in life. I'll—"

"Bostil, my one chance was ruined—an' you know who did it," replied
Slone, as he gathered Nagger's rope and Wildfire's bridle together. "I've no
hard feelin's.... But I can't sell you my horse. An' I can't ride for
you—because—well, because it would breed trouble."

"An' what kind?" queried Bostil.

Holley and Farlane and Van, with several other riders, had come up and
were standing open-mouthed. Slone gathered from their manner and expression
that anything might happen with Bostil in such a mood.

"We'd be racin' the King an' Wildfire, wouldn't we?" replied Slone.

"An' supposin' we would?" returned Bostil, ominously. His huge frame
vibrated with a slight start.

"Wildfire would run off with your favorite—an' you wouldn't like
that," answered Slone. It was his rider's hot blood that prompted him to
launch this taunt. He could not help it.

"You wild-hoss chaser," roared Bostil, "your Wildfire may be a bloody
killer, but he can't beat the King in a race!"

"Excuse ME, Bostil, but Wildfire did beat the King!"

This was only adding fuel to the fire. Slone saw Holley making signs that
must have meant silence would be best. But Slone's blood was up. Bostil had
rubbed him the wrong way.

"You're a lair!" declared Bostil, with a tremendous stride forward. Slone
saw then how dangerous the man really was. "It was no race. Your wild hoss
knocked the King off the track."

"Sage King had the lead, didn't he? Why didn't he keep it?"

Bostil was like a furious, intractable child whose favorite precious
treasure had been broken; and he burst out into a torrent of incoherent
speech, apparently reasons why this and that were so. Slone did not make out
what Bostil meant and he did not care. When Bostil got out of breath Slone
said:

"We're both wastin' talk. An' I'm not wantin' you to call me a liar twice
.... Put your rider up on the King an' come on, right now. I'll—"

"Slone, shut up an' chase yourself," interrupted Holley

"You go to hell!" returned Slone, coolly.

There was a moment's silence, in which Slone took Holley's measure. The
hawk-eyed old rider may have been square, but he was then thinking only of
Bostil.

"What am I up, against here?" demanded Slone. "Am I goin' to be shot
because I'm takin' my own part? Holley, you an' the rest of your pards are
all afraid of this old devil. But I'm not—an' you stay out of
this."

"Wal, son, you needn't git riled," replied Holley, placatingly. "I was
only tryin' to stave off talk you might be sorry for."

"Sorry for nothin'! I'm goin' to make this great horse-trader, this rich
an' mighty rancher, this judge of grand horses, this Bostil!... I'm
goin' to make him race the King or take water!" Then Slone turned to Bostil.
That worthy evidently had been stunned by the rider who dared call him to his
face. "Come on! Fetch the King! Let your own riders judge the race!"

Bostil struggled both to control himself and to speak. "Naw! I ain't goin'
to see thet red hoss-killer jump the King again!"

"Bah! you're afraid. You know there'd be no girl on his back. You know he
can outrun the King an' that's why you want to buy him."

Slone caught his breath then. He realized suddenly, at Bostil's paling
face, that perhaps he had dared too much. Yet, maybe the truth flung into
this hard old rider's teeth was what he needed more than anything else. Slone
divined, rather than saw, that he had done an unprecedented thing.

"I'll go now, Bostil."

Slone nodded a good-by to the riders, and, turning away, he led the two
horses down the lane toward the house. It scarcely needed sight of Lucy under
the cottonwoods to still his anger and rouse his regret. Lucy saw him coming,
and, as usual, started to avoid meeting him, when sight of the horses, or
something else, caused her to come toward him instead.

Slone halted. Both Wildfire and Nagger whinnied at sight of the girl. Lucy
took one flashing glance at them, at Slone, and then she evidently guessed
what was amiss.

"I should say not," declared Slone, quickly lifting his hand to his face.
"Must be from my cut, that blood. I barked my hand holdin' Wildfire."

"Oh! I—I was sick with—with—" Lucy faltered and broke
off, and then drew back quickly, as if suddenly conscious of her actions and
words.

Then Slone began to relate everything that had been said, and before he
concluded his story his heart gave a wild throb at the telltale face and eyes
of the girl.

"You said that to Dad!" she cried, in amaze and fear and admiration. "Oh,
Dad richly deserved it! But I wish you hadn't. Oh, I wish you hadn't!"

"Why?" asked Slone.

But she did not answer that. "Where are you going?" she questioned.

"Come to think of that, I don't know," replied Slone, blankly. "I started
back to fetch my things out of my room. That's as far as my muddled thoughts
got."

"Your things?... Oh!" Suddenly she grew intensely white. The little
freckles that had been so indistinct stood out markedly, and it was as if she
had never had any tan. One brown hand went to her breast, the other fluttered
to his arm again. "You mean to—to go away—for good."

Then she flew round the comer of the house, to disappear. Slone stood
there transfixed and thrilling. Even Bostil's heavy tread did not break the
trance, and a meeting would have been unavoidable had not Bostil turned down
the path that led to the back of the house. Slone, with a start collecting
his thoughts, hurried into the little room that had been his and gathered up
his few belongings. He was careful to leave behind the gifts of guns,
blankets, gloves, and other rider's belongings which Bostil had presented to
him. Thus laden, he went outside and, tingling with emotions utterly sweet
and bewildering, he led the horses down into the village.

Slone went down to Brackton's, and put the horses into a large,
high-fenced pasture adjoining Brackton's house. Slone felt reasonably sure
his horses would be safe there, but he meant to keep a mighty close watch on
them. And old Brackton, as if he read Slone's mind, said this: "Keep your eye
on thet daffy boy, Joel Creech. He hangs round my place, sleeps out
somewheres, an' he's crazy about hosses."

Slone did not need any warning like that, nor any information to make him
curious regarding young Creech. Lucy had seen to that, and, in fact, Slone
was anxious to meet this half-witted fellow who had so grievously offended
and threatened Lucy. That morning, however, Creech did not put in an
appearance. The village had nearly returned to its normal state now, and the
sleepy tenor of its way. The Indians, had been the last to go, but now none
remained. The days were hot while the sun stayed high, and only the riders
braved its heat.

The morning, however, did not pass without an interesting incident.
Brackton approached Slone with an offer that he take charge of the freighting
between the Ford and Durango. "What would I do with Wildfire?" was Slone's
questioning reply, and Brackton held up his hands. A later incident earned
more of Slone's attention. He had observed a man in Brackton's store, and it
chanced that this man heard Slone's reply to Brackton's offer, and he said:
"You'll sure need to corral thet red stallion. Grandest hoss I ever
seen!"

That praise won Slone, and he engaged in conversation with the man, who
said his name was Vorhees. It developed soon that Vorhees owned a little
house, a corral, and a patch of ground on a likely site up under the bluff,
and he was anxious to sell cheap because he had a fine opportunity at
Durango, where his people lived. What interested Slone most was the man's
remark that he had a corral which could not be broken into. The price he
asked was ridiculously low if the property was worth anything. An idea
flashed across Slone's mind. He went up to Vorhees's place and was much
pleased with everything, especially the corral, which had been built by a man
who feared horse-thieves as much as Bostil. The view from the door of the
little cabin was magnificent beyond compare. Slone remembered Lucy's last
words. They rang like bells in his ears. "Don't go—don't!" They were
enough to chain him to Bostil's Ford until the crack of doom. He dared not
dream of what they meant. He only listened to their music as they pealed over
and over in his ears.

"Vorhees, are you serious?" he asked. "The money you ask is little
enough."

"It's enough an' to spare," replied the man. "An' I'd take it as a favor
of you."

"Well, I'll go you," said Slone, and he laughed a little irrationally.
"Only you needn't tell right away that I bought you out."

The deal was consummated, leaving Slone still with half of the money that
had been his prize in the race. He felt elated. He was rich. He owned two
horses—one the grandest in all the uplands, the other the faithfulest
—and he owned a neat little cabin where it was a joy to sit and look
out, and a corral which would let him sleep at night, and he had money to put
into supplies and furnishings, and a garden. After he drank out of the spring
that bubbled from under the bluff he told himself it alone was worth the
money.

"Looks right down on Bostil's place," Slone soliloquized, with glee.
"Won't he just be mad! An' Lucy!... Whatever's she goin' to think?"

The more Slone looked around and thought, the more he became convinced
that good fortune had knocked at his door at last. And when he returned to
Brackton's he was in an exultant mood. The old storekeeper gave him a nudge
and pointed underhand to a young man of ragged aspect sitting gloomily on a
box. Slone recognized Joel Creech. The fellow surely made a pathetic sight,
and Slone pitied him. He looked needy and hungry.

"Say," said Slone, impulsively, "want to help me carry some grub an'
stuff?"

"Howdy!" replied Creech, raising his head. "Sure do."

Slone sustained the queerest shock of his life when he met the gaze of
those contrasting eyes. Yet he did not believe that his strange feeling came
from sight of different-colored eyes. There was an instinct or portent in
that meeting.

He purchased a bill of goods from Brackton, and, with Creech helping,
carried it up to the cabin under the bluff. Three trips were needed to pack
up all the supplies, and meanwhile Creech had but few words to say, and these
of no moment. Slone offered him money, which he refused.

"I'll help you fix up, an' eat a bite," he said. "Nice up hyar."

He seemed rational enough and certainly responded to kindness. Slone found
that Vorhees had left the cabin so clean there was little cleaning to do. An
open fireplace of stone required some repair and there was wood to cut.

"Joel, you start a fire while I go down after my horses," said Slone.

Young Creech nodded and Slone left him there. It was not easy to catch
Wildfire, nor any easier to get him into the new corral; but at last Slone
saw him safely there. And the bars and locks on the gate might have defied
any effort to open or break them quickly. Creech was standing in the doorway,
watching the horses, and somehow Slone saw, or imagined he saw, that Creech
wore a different aspect.

"Grand wild hoss! He did what Blue was a-goin' to do—beat thet there
d—d Bostil's King!"

Creech wagged his head. He was gloomy and strange. His eyes were
unpleasant to look into. His face changed. And he mumbled. Slone pitied him
the more, but wished to see the last of him. Creech stayed on, however, and
grew stranger and more talkative during the meal. He repeated things often
—talked disconnectedly, and gave other indications that he was not
wholly right in his mind. Yet Slone suspected that Creech's want of balance
consisted only in what concerned horses and the Bostils. And Slone, wanting
to learn all he could, encouraged Creech to talk about his father and the
racers and the river and boat, and finally Bostil.

Slone became convinced that, whether young Creech was half crazy or not,
he knew his father's horses were doomed, and that the boat at the ferry had
been cut adrift. Slone could not understand why he was convinced, but he was.
Finally Creech told how he had gone down to the river only a day before; how
he had found the flood still raging, but much lower; how he had worked round
the cliffs and had pulled up the rope cables to find they had been cut.

"You see, Bostil cut them when he didn't need to," continued Creech,
shrewdly. "But he didn't know the flood was comin' down so quick. He was
afeared we'd come across an' git the boat thet night. An' he meant to take
away them cut cables. But he hadn't no time."

"Bostil?" queried Slone, as he gazed hard at Creech. The fellow had told
that rationally enough. Slone wondered if Bostil could have been so base. No!
and yet—when it came to horses Bostil was scarcely human.

Slone's query served to send Creech off on another tangent which wound up
in dark, mysterious threats. Then Slone caught the name of Lucy. It abruptly
killed his sympathy for Creech.

"What's the girl got to do with it?" he demanded, angrily. "If you want to
talk to me don't use her name."

"I'll use her name when I want," shouted Creech.

"Not to me!"

"Yes, to you, mister. I ain't carin' a d—n fer you!"

"You crazy loon!" exclaimed Slone, with impatience and disgust added to
anger. "What's the use of being decent to you?"

Creech crouched low, his hands digging like claws into the table, as if he
were making ready to spring. At that instant he was hideous.

"Crazy, am I?" he yelled. "Mebbe not d—n crazy! I kin tell you're
gone on Lucy Bostil! I seen you with her out there in the rocks the mornin'
of the race. I seen what you did to her. An' I'm a-goin' to tell it!... An'
I'm a-goin' to ketch Lucy Bostil an' strip her naked, an' when I git through
with her I'll tie her on a hoss an' fire the grass! By Gawd! I am!" Livid and
wild, he breathed hard as he got up, facing Slone malignantly.

"Crazy or not, here goes!" muttered Slone, grimly; and, leaping up, with
one blow he knocked Creech half out of the door, and then kicked him the rest
of the way. "Go on and have a fit!" cried Slone. "I'm liable to kill you if
you don't have one!"

Creech got up and ran down the path, turning twice on the way. Then he
disappeared among the trees.

Slone sat down. "Lost my temper again!" he said. "This has been a day.
Guess I'd better cool off right now an' stay here.... That poor devil! Maybe
he's not so crazy. But he's wilder than an Indian. I must warn Lucy.... Lord!
I wonder if Bostil could have held back repairin' that boat, an' then cut it
loose? I wonder? Yesterday I'd have sworn never. To-day—"

Slone drove the conclusion of that thought out of his consciousness before
he wholly admitted it. Then he set to work cutting the long grass from the
wet and shady nooks under the bluff where the spring made the ground rich. He
carried an armful down to the corral. Nagger was roaming around outside,
picking grass for himself. Wildfire snorted as always when he saw Slone, and
Slone as always, when time permitted, tried to coax the stallion to him. He
had never succeeded, nor did he this time. When he left the bundle of grass
on the ground and went outside Wildfire readily came for it.

"You're that tame, anyhow, you hungry red devil," said Slone, jealously.
Wildfire would take a bunch of grass from Lucy Bostil's hand. Slone's
feelings had undergone some reaction, though he still loved the horse. But it
was love mixed with bitterness. More than ever he made up his mind that Lucy
should have Wildfire. Then he walked around his place, planning the work he
meant to start at once.

Several days slipped by with Slone scarcely realizing how they flew.
Unaccustomed labor tired him so that he went to bed early and slept like a
log. If it had not been for the ever-present worry and suspense and longing,
in regard to Lucy, he would have been happier than ever he could remember.
Almost at once he had become attached to his little home, and the more he
labored to make it productive and comfortable the stronger grew his
attachment. Practical toil was not conducive to daydreaming, so Slone felt a
loss of something vague and sweet. Many times he caught himself watching with
eager eyes for a glimpse of Lucy Bostil down there among the cottonwoods.
Still, he never saw her, and, in fact, he saw so few villagers that the place
began to have a loneliness which endeared it to him the more. Then the view
down the gray valley to the purple monuments was always thrillingly memorable
to Slone. It was out there Lucy had saved his horse and his life. His keen
desert gaze could make out even at that distance the great, dark monument,
gold-crowned, in the shadow of which he had heard Lucy speak words that had
transformed life for him. He would ride out there some day. The spell of
those looming grand shafts of colored rock was still strong upon him.

One morning Slone had a visitor—old Brackton. Slone's cordiality
died on his lips before it was half uttered. Brackton's former friendliness
was not in evidence indeed, he looked at Slone with curiosity and
disfavor

"Howdy, Slone! I jest wanted to see what you was doin' up hyar," he
said.

Slone spread his hands and explained in few words.

"So you took over the place, hey? We all figgered thet. But Vorhees was
mum. Fact is, he was sure mysterious." Brackton sat down and eyed Slone with
interest. "Folks are talkin' a lot about you," he said, bluntly.

"Is that so?"

"You 'pear to be a pretty mysterious kind of a feller, Slone. I kind of
took a shine to you at first, an' thet's why I come up hyar to tell you it'd
be wise fer you to vamoose."

"What!" exclaimed Slone.

Brackton repeated substantially what he had said, then, pausing an
instant, continued: "I've no call to give you a hunch, but I'll do it jest
because I did like you fust off."

The old man seemed fussy and nervous and patronizing and disparaging all
at once.

"What'd you beat up thet poor Joel Creech fer?" demanded Brackton.

"He got what he deserved," replied Slone, and the memory, coming on the
head of this strange attitude of Brackton's, roused Slone's temper.

"Wal, Joel tells some queer things about you—fer instance, how you
took advantage of little Lucy Bostil, grabbin' her an' maulin' her the way
Joel seen you."

"D—n the loon!" muttered Slone, rising to pace the path.

"Wal, Joel's a bit off, but he's not loony all the time. He's seen you an'
he's tellin' it. When Bostil hears it you'd better be acrost the canyon!"

Slone felt the hot, sick rush of blood to his face, and humiliation and
rage overtook him.

"Joel's down at my house. He had fits after you beat him, an' he 'ain't
got over them yet. But he could blab to the riders. Van Sickle's lookin' fer
you. An' to-day when I was alone with Joel he told me some more queer things
about you. I shut him up quick. But I ain't guaranteein' I can keep him shut
up."

"I'll bet you I shut him up," declared Slone. "What more did the fool
say?"

"Slone, hev you been round these hyar parts—-down among the
monuments—fer any considerable time?" queried Brackton.

"Yes, I have—several weeks out there, an' about ten days or so
around the Ford."

"Where was you the night of the flood?"

The shrewd scrutiny of the old man, the suspicion, angered Slone.

"If it's any of your mix, I was out on the slope among the rocks. I heard
that flood comin' down long before it got here," replied Slone,
deliberately.

Brackton averted his gaze, and abruptly rose as if the occasion was ended.
"Wal, take my hunch an' leave!" he said, turning away.

"Brackton, if you mean well, I'm much obliged," returned Slone, slowly,
ponderingly. "But I'll not take the hunch."

"Suit yourself," added Brackton, coldly, and he went away.

Slone watched him go down the path and disappear in the lane of
cottonwoods.

"I'll be darned!" muttered Slone. "Funny old man. Maybe Creech's not the
only loony one hereabouts."

Slone tried to laugh off the effect of the interview, but it persisted and
worried him all day. After supper he decided to walk down into the village,
and would have done so but for the fact that he saw a man climbing his path.
When he recognized the rider Holley he sensed trouble, and straightway he
became gloomy. Bostil's right-hand man could not call on him for any friendly
reason. Holley came up slowly, awkwardly, after the manner of a rider unused
to walking. Slone had built a little porch on the front of his cabin and a
bench, which he had covered with goatskins. It struck him a little strangely
that he should bend over to rearrange these skins just as Holley approached
the porch.

"Sure! He'd make anybody mad. I've seen riders bite themselves, they was
so mad at Bostil. You called him, an' you sure tickled all the boys. But you
hurt yourself, fer Bostil owns an' runs this here Ford."

"So I've discovered," replied Slone.

"You got yourself in bad right off, fer Bostil has turned the riders ag'in
you, an' this here punchin' of Creech has turned the village folks ag'in you.
What'd pitch into him fer?"

Slone caught the kindly interest and intent of the rider, and it warmed
him as Brackton's disapproval had alienated him.

"Thet hoss of yours, Wildfire, he's enough to make you hated in Bostil's
camp, even if you hadn't made a fool of yourself, which you sure have."

Slone dropped his head as admission.

"What Creech swears he seen you do to Miss Lucy, out there among the
rocks, where you was hid with Wildfire—is there any truth in thet?"
asked Holley, earnestly. "Tell me, Slone. Folks believe it. An' it's hurt you
at the Ford. Bostil hasn't heard it yet, an' Lucy she doesn't know. But I'm
figgerin' thet you punched Joel because he throwed it in your face."

"He did, an' I lambasted him," replied Slone, with force.

"You did right. But what I want to know, is it true what Joel seen?"

"It's true, Holley. But what I did isn't so bad—so bad as he'd make
it look."

"Wal, I knowed thet. I knowed fer a long time how Lucy cares fer you,"
returned the old rider, kindly.

Slone raised his head swiftly, incredulously. "Holley! You can't be
serious."

"Wal, I am. I've been sort of a big brother to Lucy Bostil for eighteen
years. I carried her in these here hands when she weighed no more 'n my
spurs. I taught her how to ride—what she knows about hosses. An' she
knows more 'n her dad. I taught her to shoot. I know her better 'n anybody.
An' lately she's been different, She's worried an' unhappy."

"Thanks—Holley," replied Slone, unsteadily. He thrilled under the
iron grasp of the rider's hard hand.

"You've got another friend you can gamble on," said Holley,
significantly.

"Another! Who?"

"Lucy Bostil. An' don't you fergit thet. I'll bet she'll raise more
trouble than Bostil when she hears what Joel Creech is tellin'. Fer she's
bound to hear it. Van Sickle swears he's a-goin' to tell her an' then beat
you up with a quirt."

"Wal, it'll be better comin' from you an' me. Take my word fer thet. I'll
prepare Lucy. An' she's as good a scrapper as Bostil, any day."

"It all scares me," replied Slone. He did feel panicky, and that was from
thoughts of what shame might befall Lucy. The cold sweat oozed out of every
pore. What might not Bostil do? "Holley, I love the girl. So I—I didn't
insult her. Bostil will never understand. An' what's he goin' to do when he
finds out?"

"Wall leave your gun home, an' fight Bostil. You're pretty husky. Sure
he'll lick you, but mebbe you could give the old cuss a black eye." Holley
laughed as if the idea gave him infinite pleasure.

"Fight Bostil?... Lucy would hate me!" cried Slone.

"Nix! You don't know thet kid. If the old man goes after you Lucy'll care
more fer you. She's jest like him in some ways." Holley pulled out a stubby
black pipe and, filling and lighting it, he appeared to grow more thoughtful.
"It wasn't only Lucy thet sent me up here to see you. Bostil had been
pesterin' me fer days. But I kept fightin' shy of it till Lucy got hold of
me."

"Bostil sent you? Why?"

"Reckon you can guess. He can't sleep, thinkin' about your red hoss. None
of us ever seen Bostil have sich a bad case. He raised Sage King. But he's
always been crazy fer a great wild stallion. An' here you come along—
an' your hoss jumps the King—an' there's trouble generally."

"Reckon I do. Lucy says so, an' I'll back her any day. But, son, I ain't
paradin' what I think. I'd git in bad myself. Farlane an' the other boys,
they're with Bostil. Van he's to blame fer thet. He's takin' a dislike to
you, right off. An' what he tells Bostil an' the boys about thet race don't
agree with what Lucy tells me. Lucy says Wildfire ran fiery an' cranky at the
start. He wanted to run round an' kill the King instead of racin'. So he was
three lengths behind when Macomber dropped the flag. Lucy says the King got
into his stride. She knows. An' there Wildfire comes from behind an' climbs
all over the King!... Van tells a different story."

"It came off just as Lucy told you," declared Slone. "I saw every
move."

"Wal, thet's neither here nor there. What you're up ag'in is this. Bostil
is sore since you called him. But he holds himself in because he hasn't given
up hope of gittin' Wildfire. An', Slone, you're sure wise, ain't you, thet if
Bostil doesn't buy him you can't stay on here?"

"I'm wise. But I won't sell Wildfire," replied Slone, doggedly.

"Wal, I'd never wasted my breath tellin' you all this if I hadn't figgered
about Lucy. You've got her to think of."

"You're only a boy," replied Holley. "Son, where there's life there's
hope. I ain't a-goin' to tell you agin thet I know Lucy Bostil."

Slone could not stand nor walk nor keep still. He was shaking from head to
foot.

"Wildfire's not mine to sell. He's Lucy's!" confessed Slone.

"The devil you say!" ejaculated Holley, and he nearly dropped his
pipe.

"I gave Wildfire to her. She accepted him. It was done.
Then—then I lost my head an' made her mad.... An'—she said she'd
ride him in the race, but wouldn't keep him. But he is hers."

"Oho! I see. Slone, I was goin' to advise you to sell Wildfire—all
on account of Lucy. You're young an' you'd have a big start in life if you
would. But Lucy's your girl an' you give her the hoss.... Thet settles
thet!"

"If I go away from here an' leave Wildfire for Lucy—do you think she
could keep him? Wouldn't Bostil take him from her?"

"Wal, son, if he tried thet on Lucy she'd jump Wildfire an' hit your trail
an' hang on to it till she found you."

"What'll you tell Bostil?" asked Slone, half beside himself.

"I'm consarned if I know," replied Holley. "Mebbe I'll think of some idee.
I'll go back now. An' say, son, I reckon you'd better hang close to home. If
you meet Bostil down in the village you two'd clash sure. I'll come up soon,
but it'll be after dark."

"Holley, all this is—is good of you," said Slone. "I—I'll
—"

"Shut up, son," interrupted the rider, dryly. "Thet's your only weakness,
so far as I can see. You say too much."

Holley started down then, his long, clinking spurs digging into the steep
path. He left Slone a prey to deep thoughts at once anxious and dreamy.

Next day Slone worked hard all day, looking forward to nightfall,
expecting that Holley would come up. He tried to resist the sweet and
tantalizing anticipation of a message from Lucy, but in vain. The rider had
immeasurably uplifted Slone's hope that Lucy, at least, cared for him. Not
for a moment all day could Slone drive away the hope. At twilight he was too
eager to eat—too obsessed to see the magnificent sunset. But Holley did
not come, and Slone went to bed late, half sick with disappointment.

The next day was worse. Slone found work irksome, yet he held to it. On
the third day he rested and dreamed, and grew doubtful again, and then moody.
On the fourth day Slone found he needed supplies that he must obtain from the
store. He did not forget Holley's warning, but he disregarded it, thinking
there would scarcely be a chance of meeting Bostil at midday.

There were horses standing, bridles down, before Brackton's place, and
riders lounging at the rail and step. Some of these men had been pleasant to
Slone on earlier occasions. This day they seemed not to see him. Slone was
tingling all over when he went into the store. Some deviltry was afoot! He
had an angry thought that these riders could not have minds of their own.
Just inside the door Slone encountered Wetherby, the young rancher from
Durango. Slone spoke, but Wetherby only replied with an insolent stare. Slone
did not glance at the man to whom Wetherby was talking. Only a few people
were inside the store, and Brackton was waiting upon them. Slone stood back a
little in the shadow. Brackton had observed his entrance, but did not greet
him. Then Slone absolutely knew that for him the good will of Bostil's Ford
was a thing of the past.

Presently Brackton was at leisure, but he showed no disposition to attend
to Slone's wants. Then Slone walked up to the counter and asked for
supplies.

"Have you got the money?" asked Brackton, as if addressing one he would
not trust.

"Yes," replied Slone, growing red under an insult that he knew Wetherby
had heard.

Brackton handed out the supplies and received the money, without a word.
He held his head down. It was a singular action for a man used to dealing
fairly with every one. Slone felt outraged. He hurried out of the place, with
shame burning him, with his own eyes downcast, and in his hurry he bumped
square into a burly form. Slone recoiled—looked up. Bostil! The old
rider was eying him with cool speculation.

"Wal, are you drunk?" he queried, without any particular expression.

Yet the query was to Slone like a blow. It brought his head up with a
jerk, his glance steady and keen on Bostil's.

"Bostil, you know I don't drink," he said.

"A-huh! I know a lot about you, Slone.... I heard you bought Vorhees's
place, up on the bench."

"Yes."

"Did he tell you it was mortgaged to me for more'n it's worth?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he make over any papers to you?"

"No."

"Wal, if it interests you I'll show you papers thet proves the property's
mine."

Slone suffered a pang. The little home had grown dearer and dearer to
him.

"I reckon I'd drove you out before this if I hadn't felt we could make a
deal."

"We can't agree on any deal, Bostil," replied Slone, steadily. It was not
what Bostil said, but the way he said it, the subtle meaning and power behind
it, that gave Slone a sense of menace and peril. These he had been used to
for years; he could meet them. But he was handicapped here because it seemed
that, though he could meet Bostil face to face, he could not fight him. For
he was Lucy's father. Slone's position, the impotence of it, rendered him
less able to control his temper.

"Why can't we?" demanded Bostil. "If you wasn't so touchy we could. An'
let me say, young feller, thet there's more reason now thet you DO make a
deal with me."

"Deal? What about?"

"About your red hoss."

"Wildfire!... No deals, Bostil," returned Slone, and made as if to pass
him.

The big hand that forced Slone back was far from gentle, and again he felt
the quick rush of blood.

"Mebbe I can tell you somethin' thet'll make you sell Wildfire," said
Bostil.

"Not if you talked yourself dumb!" flashed Slone. There was no use to try
to keep cool with this Bostil, if he talked horses. "I'll race Wildfire
against the King. But no more."

"Race! Wal, we don't run races around here without stakes," replied
Bostil, with deep scorn. "An' what can you bet? Thet little dab of prize
money is gone, an' wouldn't be enough to meet me. You're a strange one in
these parts. I've pride an' reputation to uphold. You brag of racin' with me
—an' you a beggarly rider!... You wouldn't have them clothes an' boots
if my girl hadn't fetched them to you."

The riders behind Bostil laughed. Wetherby's face was there in the door,
not amused, but hard with scorn and something else. Slone felt a sickening,
terrible gust of passion. It fairly shook him. And as the wave subsided the
quick cooling of skin and body pained him like a burn made with ice.

"Yes, Bostil, I'm what you say," responded Slone, and his voice seemed to
fill his ears. "But you're dead wrong when you say I've nothin' to bet on a
race."

"An' what'll you bet?"

"My life an' my horse!"

The riders suddenly grew silent and intense. Bostil vibrated to that. He
turned white. He more than any rider on the uplands must have felt the nature
of that offer.

"Ag'in what?" he demanded, hoarsely.

"Your daughter Lucy!"

One instant the surprise held Bostil mute and motionless. Then he seemed
to expand. His huge bulk jerked into motion and he bellowed like a mad
bull.

Slone saw the blow coming, made no move to avoid it. The big fist took him
square on the mouth and chin and laid him flat on the ground. Sight failed
Slone for a little, and likewise ability to move. But he did not lose
consciousness. His head seemed to have been burst into rays and red mist that
blurred his eyes. Then these cleared away, leaving intense pain. He started
to get up, his brain in a whirl. Where was his gun? He had left it at home.
But for that he would have killed Bostil. He had already killed one man. The
thing was a burning flash—then all over! He could do it again. But
Bostil was Lucy's father!

Slone gathered up the packages of supplies, and without looking at the men
he hurried away. He seemed possessed of a fury to turn and run back. Some
force, like an invisible hand, withheld him. When he reached the cabin he
shut himself in, and lay on his bunk, forgetting that the place did not
belong to him, alive only to the mystery of his trouble, smarting with the
shame of the assault upon him. It was dark before he composed himself and
went out, and then he had not the desire to eat. He made no move to open the
supplies of food, did not even make a light. But he went out to take grass
and water to the horses. When he returned to the cabin a man was standing at
the porch. Slone recognized Holley's shape and then his voice.

"Son, you raised the devil to-day."

"Holley, don't you go back on me!" cried Slone. "I was driven!"

"Don't talk so loud," whispered the rider in return. "I've only a minnit
.... Here—a letter from Lucy.... An', son, don't git the idee thet I'll
go back on you."

Slone took the letter with trembling fingers. All the fury and gloom
instantly fled. Lucy had written him! He could not speak.

"Son, I'm double-crossin' the boss, right this minnit!" whispered Holley,
hoarsely. "An' the same time I'm playin' Lucy's game. If Bostil finds out
he'll kill me. I mustn't be ketched up here. But I won't lose track of you
—wherever you go."

Holley slipped away stealthily in the dusk, leaving Slone with a throbbing
heart.

"Wherever you go!" he echoed. "Ah! I forgot! I can't stay here."

Lucy's letter made his fingers tingle—made them so hasty and awkward
that he had difficulty in kindling blaze enough to see to read. The letter
was short, written in lead-pencil on the torn leaf of a ledger. Slone could
not read rapidly—those years on the desert had seen to that—and
his haste to learn what Lucy said bewildered him. At first all the words
blurred:

Come at once to the bench in the cottonwoods. I'll meet you there. My
heart is breaking. It's a lie—a lie—what they say. I'll swear
you were with me the night the boat was cut adrift. I know you didn't
do that. I know who.... Oh, come! I will stick to you. I will run off with
you. I love you!"

SLONE'S heart leaped to his throat, and its beating choked
his utterances of rapture and amaze and dread. But rapture dominated the
other emotions. He could scarcely control the impulse to run to meet Lucy,
without a single cautious thought.

He put the precious letter inside his blouse, where it seemed to warm his
breast. He buckled on his gun-belt, and, extinguishing the light, he hurried
out.

A crescent moon had just tipped the bluff. The village lanes and cabins
and trees lay silver in the moon-light. A lonesome coyote barked in the
distance. All else was still. The air was cool, sweet, fragrant. There
appeared to be a glamour of light, of silence, of beauty over the desert.

Slone kept under the dark lee of the bluff and worked around so that he
could be above the village, where there was little danger of meeting any one.
Yet presently he had to go out of the shadow into the moon-blanched lane.
Swift and silent as an Indian he went along, keeping in the shade of what
trees there were, until he came to the grove of cottonwoods. The grove was a
black mystery lanced by silver rays. He slipped in among the trees, halting
every few steps to listen. The action, the realization had helped to make him
cool, to steel him, though never before in his life had he been so exalted.
The pursuit and capture of Wildfire, at one time the desire of his heart,
were as nothing to this. Love had called him—and life—and he knew
death hung in the balance. If Bostil found him seeking Lucy there would be
blood spilled. Slone quaked at the thought, for the cold and ghastly
oppression following the death he had meted out to Sears came to him at
times. But such thoughts were fleeting; only one thought really held his mind
—and the one was that Lucy loved him, had sent strange, wild,
passionate words to him.

He found the narrow path, its white crossed by slowly moving black bars of
shadow, and stealthily he followed this, keen of eye and ear, stopping at
every rustle. He well knew the bench Lucy had mentioned. It was in a remote
corner of the grove, under big trees near the spring. Once Slone thought he
had a glimpse of white. Perhaps it was only moonlight. He slipped on and on,
and when beyond the branching paths that led toward the house he breathed
freer. The grove appeared deserted. At last he crossed the runway from the
spring, smelled the cool, wet moss and watercress, and saw the big
cottonwood, looming dark above the other trees. A patch of moonlight
brightened a little glade just at the edge of dense shade cast by the
cottonwood. Here the bench stood. It was empty!

Slone's rapture vanished. He was suddenly chilled. She was not there! She
might have been intercepted. He would not see her. The disappointment, the
sudden relaxation, was horrible. Then a white, slender shape flashed from
beside the black tree-trunk and flew toward him. It was noiseless, like a
specter, and swift as the wind. Was he dreaming? He felt so strange. Then
—the white shape reached him and he knew.

Lucy leaped into his arms.

"Lin! Lin! Oh, I'm so—so glad to see you!" she whispered. She seemed
breathless, keen, new to him, not in the least afraid nor shy. Slone could
only hold her. He could not have spoken, even if she had given him a chance.
"I know everything—what they accuse you of—how the riders treated
you—how my dad struck you. Oh!... He's a brute! I hate him for that.
Why didn't you keep out of his way?... Van saw it all. Oh, I hate him, too!
He said you lay still—where you fell!... Dear Lin, that blow may have
hurt you dreadfully—shamed you because you couldn't strike back at my
dad—but it reached me, too. It hurt me. It woke my heart...
.Where—where did he hit you? Oh, I've seen him hit men! His terrible
fists!"

"Lucy, never mind," whispered Slone. "I'd stood to be shot just for
this."

He felt her hands softly on his face, feeling around tenderly till they
found the swollen bruise on mouth and chin.

"Ah!... He struck you. And I—I'll kiss you," she whispered. "If
kisses will make it well—it'll be well!"

She seemed strange, wild, passionate in her tenderness. She lifted her
face and kissed him softly again and again and again, till the touch that had
been exquisitely painful to his bruised lips became rapture. Then she leaned
back in his arms, her hands on his shoulders, white-faced, dark-eyed, and
laughed up in his face, lovingly, daringly, as if she defied the world to
change what she had done.

And Slone could not but know, too, looking at her; and the sweetness, the
eloquence, the noble abandon of her avowal sounded to the depths of him. His
dread, his resignation, his shame, all sped forever in the deep, full breath
of relief with which he cast off that burden. He tasted the nectar of
happiness, the first time in his life. He lifted his head—never, he
knew, to lower it again. He would be true to what she had made him.

"Come in the shade," he whispered, and with his arm round her he led her
to the great tree-trunk. "Is it safe for you here? An' how long can you
stay?"

"I had it out with Dad—left him licked once in his life," she
replied. "Then I went to my room, fastened the door, and slipped out of my
window. I can stay out as long as I want. No one will know."

Slone's heart throbbed. She was his. The clasp of her hands on his, the
gleam of her eyes, the white, daring flash of her face in the shadow of the
moon—these told him she was his. How it had come about was beyond him,
but he realized the truth. What a girl! This was the same nerve which she
showed when she had run Wildfire out in front of the fleetest horses in the
uplands.

"Only that for some reason I'm done in Bostil's Ford. It can't be because
I punched Joel Creech. I felt it before I met Bostil at the store. He taunted
me. We had bitter words. He told before all of them how the outfit I wore you
gave me. An' then I dared him to race the King. My horse an' my life against
YOU!"

"Yes, I know," she whispered, softly. "It's all over town.... Oh, Lin! it
was a grand bet! And Bostil four-flushed, as the riders say. For days a race
between Wildfire and the King had been in the air. There'll never be peace in
Bostil's Ford again till that race is run."

"But, Lucy, could Bostil's wantin' Wildfire an' hatin' me because I won't
sell—could that ruin me here at the Ford?"

"It could. But, Lin, there's more. Oh, I hate to tell you!" she whispered,
passionately. "I thought you'd know.... Joel Creech swore you cut the ropes
on the ferry-boat and sent it adrift."

"The loon!" ejaculated Slone, and he laughed low in both anger and
ridicule. "Lucy, that's only a fool's talk."

"He's crazy. Oh, if I ever get him in front of me again when I'm on Sarch
—I'll—I'll.... " She ended with a little gasp and leaned a moment
against Slone. He felt her heart beat—felt the strong clasp of her
hands. She was indeed Bostil's flesh and blood, and there was that in her
dangerous to arouse.

"Lin, the folks here are queer," she resumed, more calmly. "For long years
Dad has ruled them. They see with his eyes and talk with his voice. Joel
Creech swore you cut those cables. Swore he trailed you. Brackton believed
him. Van believed him. They told my father. And he—my dad—God
forgive him! he jumped at that. The village as one person now believes you
sent the boat adrift so Creech's horses could not cross and you could win the
race."

"My God!" gasped Slone, as the full signification burst upon him. Then his
next thought was for Lucy. "Listen, dear—you mustn't say that," he
entreated. "He's your father. He's a good man every way except when he's
after horses. Then he's half horse. I understand him. I feel sorry for him
.... An' if he's throwed the blame on me, all right. I'll stand it. What do I
care? I was queered, anyhow, because I wouldn't part with my horse. It can't
matter so much if people think I did that just to help win a race. But if
they knew your—your father did it, an' if Creech's horses starve, why
it'd be a disgrace for him—an' you."

"Lin Slone—you'll accept the blame!" she whispered, with wide, dark
eyes on him, hands at his shoulders.

"Sure I will," replied Slone. "I can't be any worse off."

"You're better than all of them—my rider!" she cried, full-voiced
and tremulous. "Lin, you make me love you so—it—it hurts!" And
she seemed about to fling herself into his arms again. There was a
strangeness about her—a glory. "But you'll not take the shame of that
act. For I won't let you. I'll tell my father I was with you when the boat
was cut loose. He'll believe me."

"I will! An' he'll not kill you. Lin, Dad took a great fancy to you. I
know that. He thinks he hates you. But in his heart he doesn't. If he got
hold of Wildfire—why, he'd never be able to do enough for you. He never
could make it up. What do you think? I told him you hugged and kissed me
shamefully that day."

"Oh, Lucy! you didn't?" implored Slone.

"I sure did. And what do you think? He said he once did the same to my
mother!... No, Lin, Dad'd never kill you for anything except a fury about
horses. All the fights he ever had were over horse deals. The two men—
he—he—" Lucy faltered and her shudder was illuminating to Slone.
"Both of them—fights over horse trades!"

"Lucy, if I'm ever unlucky enough to meet Bostil again I'll be deaf an'
dumb. An' now you promise me you won't tell him you were with me that
night."

"Lin, if the occasion comes, I will—I couldn't help it," replied
Lucy.

"Then fight shy of the occasion," he rejoined, earnestly. "For that would
be the end of Lin Slone!"

"I think we must wait. You wrote in your letter you'd stick to me—
you'd—" He could not get the words out, the thought so overcame
him.

"If it comes to a finish, I'll go with you," Lucy returned, with passion
rising again.

"Oh! to ride off with you, Lucy—to have you all to myself—I
daren't think of it. But that's only selfish."

"Maybe it's not so selfish as you believe. If you left the Ford—
now—it'd break my heart. I'd never get over it."

"Lucy! You love me—that well?"

Then their lips met again and their hands locked, and they stood silent,
straining toward each other. He held the slight form, so pliant, so
responsive, so alive, close to him, and her face lay hidden on his breast;
and he looked out over her head into the quivering moonlit shadows. The night
was as still as one away on the desert far from the abode of men. It was more
beautiful than any dream of a night in which he had wandered far into strange
lands where wild horses were and forests lay black under moon-silvered
peaks.

"We'll run—then—if it comes to a finish," said Slone, huskily.
"But I'll wait. I'll stick it out here. I'll take what comes. So—maybe
I'll not disgrace you more."

"I told Van I—I gloried in being hugged by you that day," she
replied, and her little defiant laugh told what she thought of the alleged
disgrace.

"You torment him," remonstrated Slone. "You set him against us. It would
be better to keep still."

"But my blood is up!" she said, and she pounded his shoulder with her
fist. "I'll fight—I'll fight!... I couldn't avoid Van. It was Holley
who told me Van was threatening you. And when I met Van he told me how
everybody said you insulted me—had been worse than a drunken rider
—and that he'd beat you half to death. So I told Van Joel Creech might
have seen us—I didn't doubt that—but he didn't see that I liked
being hugged."

"What did Van say then?" asked Slone, all aglow with his wonderful
joy.

"He wilted. He slunk away.... And so I'll tell them all."

"But, Lucy, you've always been so—so truthful."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, to say you liked being hugged that day was—was a story,
wasn't it?"

"That was what made me so furious," she admitted, shyly. "I was surprised
when you grabbed me off Wildfire. And my heart beat—beat—beat so
when you hugged me. And when you kissed me I—I was petrified. I knew I
liked it then—and I was furious with myself."

Slone drew a long, deep breath of utter enchantment. "You'll take back
Wildfire?"

"Oh, Lin—don't—ask—me," she implored.

"Take him back—an' me with him."

"Then I will. But no one must know that yet."

They drew apart then.

"An' now you must go," said Slone, reluctantly. "Listen. I forgot to warn
you about Joel Creech. Don't ever let him near you. He's crazy an' he means
evil."

"Oh, I know, Lin! I'll watch. But I'm not afraid of him."

"He's strong, Lucy. I saw him lift bags that were hefty for me.... Lucy,
do you ride these days?"

"I'm afraid of Cordts," replied Lucy, with a shiver. "You should have seen
him look at me race-day. It made me hot with anger, yet weak, too, somehow.
But Dad says I'm never in any danger if I watch out. And I do. Who could
catch me on Sarch?"

"Any horse can be tripped in the sage. You told me how Joel tried to rope
Sage King. Did you ever tell your dad that?"

"I forgot. But then I'm glad I didn't. Dad would shoot for that, quicker
than if Joel tried to rope him.... Don't worry, Lin, I always pack a
gun."

"But can you use it?"

Lucy laughed. "Do you think I can only ride?"

Slone remembered that Holley had said he had taught Lucy how to shoot as
well as ride. "You'll be watchful—careful," he said, earnestly.

"Oh, Lin, you need to be that more than I.... What will you do?"

"I'll stay up at the little cabin I thought I owned till to-day."

"Didn't you buy it?" asked Lucy, quickly.

"I thought I did. But... never mind. Maybe I won't get put out just yet.
An' when will I see you again?"

"I'll—wait!" he exclaimed, with a catch in his voice. "Oh, my
luck!... I'll wait, Lucy, every day—hopin' an' prayin' that this
trouble will lighten. An' I'll wait at night—for you!"

He kissed her good-by and watched the slight form glide away, flit to and
fro, white in the dark patches, grow indistinct and vanish. He was left alone
in the silent grove.

Slone stole back to the cabin and lay sleepless and tranced, watching the
stars, till late that night.

All the next day he did scarcely anything but watch and look after his
horses and watch and drag the hours out and dream despite his dread. But no
one visited him. The cabin was left to him that day.

It had been a hot day, with great thunderhead, black and creamy white
clouds rolling down from the canyon country. No rain had fallen at the Ford,
though storms near by had cooled the air. At sunset Slone saw a rainbow
bending down, ruddy and gold, connecting the purple of cloud with the purple
of horizon.

Out beyond the valley the clouds were broken, showing rifts of blue, and
they rolled low, burying the heads of the monuments, creating a wild and
strange spectacle. Twilight followed, and appeared to rise to meet the
darkening clouds. And at last the gold on the shafts faded; the monuments
faded; and the valley grew dark.

Slone took advantage of the hour before moonrise to steal down into the
grove, there to wait for Lucy. She came so quickly he scarcely felt that he
waited at all; and then the time spent with her, sweet, fleeting, precious,
left him stronger to wait for her again, to hold himself in, to cease his
brooding, to learn faith in something deeper than he could fathom.

The next day he tried to work, but found idle waiting made the time fly
swifter because in it he could dream. In the dark of the rustling cottonwoods
he met Lucy, as eager to see him as he was to see her, tender, loving,
remorseful—a hundred sweet and bewildering things all so new, so
unbelievable to Slone.

That night he learned that Bostil had started for Durango with some of his
riders. This trip surprised Slone and relieved him likewise, for Durango was
over two hundred miles distant, and a journey there even for the hard riders
was a matter of days.

"He left no orders for me," Lucy said, "except to behave myself.... Is
this behaving?" she whispered, and nestled close to Slone, audacious,
tormenting as she had been before this dark cloud of trouble. "But he left
orders for Holley to ride with me and look after me. Isn't that funny? Poor
old Holley! He hates to doublecross Dad, he says."

"I'm glad Holley's to look after you," replied Slone. "Yesterday I saw you
tearin' down into the sage on Sarch. I wondered what you'd do, Lucy, if
Cordts or that loon Creech should get hold of you?"

"I'd fight!"

"But, child, that's nonsense. You couldn't fight either of them."

"Couldn't I? Well, I just could. I'd—I'd shoot Cordts. And I'd whip
Joel Creech with my quirt. And if he kept after me I'd let Sarch run him
down. Sarch hates him."

"You're a brave sweetheart," mused Slone. "Suppose you were caught an'
couldn't get away. Would you leave a trail somehow?"

"I sure would."

"Lucy, I'm a wild-horse hunter," he went on, thoughtfully, as if speaking
to himself. "I never failed on a trail. I could track you over bare
rock."

"Lin, I'll leave a trail, so never fear," she replied. "But don't borrow
trouble. You're always afraid for me. Look at the bright side. Dad seems to
have forgotten you. Maybe it all isn't so bad as we thought. Oh, I hope so!
... How is my horse, Wildfire? I want to ride him again. I can hardly keep
from going after him."

And so they whispered while the moments swiftly passed.

It was early during the afternoon of the next day that Slone, hearing the
clip-clop of unshod ponies, went outside to look. One part of the lane he
could see plainly, and into it stalked Joel Creech, leading the leanest and
gauntest ponies Slone had ever seen. A man as lean and gaunt as the ponies
stalked behind.

The sight shocked Slone. Joel Creech and his father! Slone had no proof,
because he had never seen the elder Creech, yet strangely he felt convinced
of it. And grim ideas began to flash into his mind. Creech would hear who was
accused of cutting the boat adrift. What would he say? If he believed, as all
the villagers believed, then Bostil's Ford would become an unhealthy place
for Lin Slone. Where were the great race-horses—Blue Roan and Peg
—and the other thoroughbreds? A pang shot through Slone.

"Oh, not lost—not starved?" he muttered. "That would be hell!"

Yet he believed just this had happened. How strange he had never
considered such an event as the return of Creech.

"I'd better look him up before he looks me," said Slone.

It took but an instant to strap on his belt and gun. Then Slone strode
down his path, out into the lane toward Brackton's. Whatever before boded ill
to Slone had been nothing to what menaced him now. He would have a man to
face—a man whom repute called just, but stern.

Before Slone reached the vicinity of the store he saw riders come out to
meet the Creech party. It so happened there were more riders than usually
frequented Brackton's at that hour. The old storekeeper came stumbling out
and raised his hands. The riders could be heard, loud-voiced and excited.
Slone drew nearer, and the nearer he got the swifter he strode. Instinct told
him that he was making the right move. He would face this man whom he was
accused of ruining. The poor mustangs hung their heads dejectedly.

"Bags of bones," some rider loudly said.

And then Slone drew dose to the excited group. Brackton held the center;
he was gesticulating; his thin voice rose piercingly.

"Creech! Whar's Peg an' the Roan? Gawd Almighty, man! You ain't meanin'
them cayuses thar are all you've got left of thet grand bunch of hosses?"

There was scarcely a sound. All the riders were still. Slone fastened his
eyes on Creech. He saw a gaunt, haggard face almost black with dust—
worn and sad—with big eyes of terrible gloom. He saw an unkempt, ragged
form that had been wet and muddy, and was now dust-caked.

Creech stood silent in a dignity of despair that wrung Slone's heart. His
silence was an answer. It was Joel Creech who broke the suspense.

Brackton shook all over. Tears dimmed his eyes—tears that he had no
shame for. "So help me Gawd—I'm sorry!" was his broken exclamation.

Slone had forgotten himself and possible revelation concerning him. But
when Holley appeared close to him with a significant warning look, Slone grew
keen once more on his own account. He felt a hot flame inside him—a
deep and burning anger at the man who might have saved Creech's horses. And
he, like Brackton, felt sorrow for Creech, and a rider's sense of loss, of
pain. These horses—these dumb brutes—faithful and sometimes
devoted, had to suffer an agonizing death because of the selfishness of
men.

"I reckon we'd all like to hear what come off, Creech, if you don't feel
too bad to tell us," said Brackton.

The riders filed in after Brackton and the Creeches. Holley stayed close
beside Slone, both of them in the background.

"I heerd the flood comin' thet night," said Creech to his silent and
tense-faced listeners. "I heerd it miles up the canyon. 'Peared a bigger roar
than any flood before. As it happened, I was alone, an' it took time to git
the hosses up. If there'd been an Indian with me—or even Joel—
mebbe—" His voice quavered slightly, broke, and then he resumed. "Even
when I got the hosses over to the landin' it wasn't too late—if only
some one had heerd me an' come down. I yelled an' shot. Nobody heerd. The
river was risin' fast. An' thet roar had begun to make my hair raise. It
seemed like years the time I waited there.... Then the flood came down
—black an' windy an' awful. I had hell gittin' the hosses back.

"Next mornin' two Piutes come down. They had lost mustangs up on the
rocks. All the feed on my place was gone. There wasn't nothin' to do but try
to git out. The Piutes said there wasn't no chance north—no water
—no grass—an' so I decided to go south, if we could climb over
thet last slide. Peg broke her leg there, an'—I—I had to shoot
her. But we climbed out with the rest of the bunch. I left it then to the
Piutes. We traveled five days west to head the canyons. No grass an' only a
little water, salt at thet. Blue Roan was game if ever I seen a game hoss.
Then the Piutes took to workin' in an' out an' around, not to git out, but to
find a little grazin'. I never knowed the earth was so barren. One by one
them hosses went down.... An' at last, I couldn't—I couldn't see Blue
Roan starvin'—dyin' right before my eyes—an' I shot him, too...
.An' what hurts me most now is thet I didn't have the nerve to kill him fust
off."

There was a long pause in Creech's narrative.

"Them Piutes will git paid if ever I can pay them. I'd parched myself but
for them.... We circled an' crossed them red cliffs an' then the strip of red
sand, an' worked down into the canyon. Under the wall was a long stretch of
beach—sandy—an' at the head of this we found Bostil's boat."

"No, Joel 'ain't said a word about the boat," replied Creech. "What about
it?"

"It was cut loose jest before the flood."

Manifestly Brackton expected this to be staggering to Creech. But he did
not even show surprise.

"There's a rider here named Slone—a wild-hoss wrangler," went on
Brackton, "an' Joel swears this Slone cut the boat loose so's he'd have a
better chance to win the race. Joel swears he tracked this feller Slone."

For Slone the moment was fraught with many emotions, but not one of them
was fear. He did not need the sudden force of Holley's strong hand, pushing
him forward. Slone broke into the group and faced Creech.

"It's not true. I never cut that boat loose," he declared ringingly.

"Who're you?" queried Creech.

"My name's Slone. I rode in here with a wild horse, an' he won a race.
Then I was blamed for this trick."

Joel showed abject fear of his father. "He's gone on Lucy—an' I seen
him with her," muttered the boy.

"An' you lied to hurt Slone?"

Joel would not reply to this in speech, though that was scarcely needed to
show he had lied. He seemed to have no sense of guilt. Creech eyed him
pityingly and then pushed him back.

"Men, my son has done this rider dirt," said Creech. "You-all see thet.
Slone never cut the boat loose.... An' say, you-all seem to think cuttin'
thet boat loose was the crime.... No! Thet wasn't the crime. The crime was
keepin' the boat out of the water fer days when my hosses could have been
crossed."

Slone stepped back, forgotten, it seemed to him. Both joy and sorrow
swayed him. He had been exonerated. But this hard and gloomy Creech—he
knew things. And Slone thought of Lucy.

"Who did cut thet thar boat loose?" demanded Brackton, incredulously.

Creech gave him a strange glance. "As I was sayin', we come on the boat
fast at the head of the long stretch. I seen the cables had been cut. An' I
seen more'n thet.... Wal, the river was high an' swift. But this was a long
stretch with good landin' way below on the other side. We got the boat in,
an' by rowin' hard an' driftin' we got acrost, leadin' the hosses. We had
five when we took to the river. Two went down on the way over. We climbed out
then. The Piutes went to find some Navajos an' get hosses. An' I headed fer
the Ford—made camp twice. An' Joel seen me comin' out a ways."

"Creech, was there anythin' left in thet boat?" began Brackton, with
intense but pondering curiosity. "Anythin' on the ropes—or so—
thet might give an idee who cut her loose?"

Creech made no reply to that. The gloom burned darker in his eyes. He
seemed a man with a secret. He trusted no one there. These men were all
friends of his, but friends under strange conditions. His silence was tragic,
and all about the man breathed vengeance.

NO moon showed that night, and few stars twinkled between
the slow-moving clouds. The air was thick and oppressive, full of the day's
heat that had not blown away. A dry storm moved in dry majesty across the
horizon, and the sheets and ropes of lightning, blazing white behind the
black monuments, gave weird and beautiful grandeur to the desert.

Lucy Bostil had to evade her aunt to get out of the house, and the window,
that had not been the means of exit since Bostil left, once more came into
use. Aunt Jane had grown suspicious of late, and Lucy, much as she wanted to
trust her with her secret, dared not do it. For some reason unknown to Lucy,
Holley had also been hard to manage, particularly to-day. Lucy certainly did
not want Holley to accompany her on her nightly rendezvous with Slone. She
changed her light gown to the darker and thicker riding-habit.

There was a longed-for, all-satisfying flavor in this night adventure
—something that had not all to do with love. The stealth, the
outwitting of guardians, the darkness, the silence, the risk—all these
called to some deep, undeveloped instinct in her, and thrilled along her
veins, cool, keen, exciting. She had the blood in her of the greatest
adventurer of his day.

Lucy feared she was a little late. Allaying the suspicions of Aunt Jane
and changing her dress had taken time. Lucy burned with less cautious steps.
Still she had only used caution in the grove because she had promised Slone
to do so. This night she forgot or disregarded it. And the shadows were thick
—darker than at any other time when she had undertaken this venture.
She had always been a little afraid of the dark—a fact that made her
contemptuous of herself. Nevertheless, she did not peer into the deeper pits
of gloom. She knew her way and could slip swiftly along with only a rustle of
leaves she touched.

Suddenly she imagined she heard a step and she halted, still as a
tree-trunk. There was no reason to be afraid of a step. It had been a
surprise to her that she had never encountered a rider walking and smoking
under the trees. Listening, she assured herself she had been mistaken, and
then went on. But she looked back. Did she see a shadow—darker than
others —moving? It was only her imagination. Yet she sustained a slight
chill. The air seemed more oppressive, or else there was some intangible and
strange thing hovering in it. She went on—reached the lane that divided
the grove. But she did not cross at once. It was lighter in this lane; she
could see quite far.

As she stood there, listening, keenly responsive to all the influences of
the night, she received an impression that did not have its origin in sight
nor sound. And only the leaves touched her—and only their dry fragrance
came to her. But she felt a presence—a strange, indefinable
presence.

But Lucy was brave, and this feeling, whatever it might be, angered her.
She entered the lane and stole swiftly along toward the end of the grove.
Paths crossed the lane at right angles, and at these points she went swifter.
It would be something to tell Slone—she had been frightened. But
thought of him drove away her fear and nervousness, and her anger with
herself.

Then she came to a wider path. She scarcely noted it and passed on. Then
came a quick rustle—a swift shadow. Between two steps—as her
heart leaped—violent arms swept her off the ground. A hard hand was
clapped over her mouth. She was being carried swiftly through the gloom.

Lucy tried to struggle. She could scarcely move a muscle. Iron arms
wrapped her in coils that crushed her. She tried to scream, but her lips were
tight-pressed. Her nostrils were almost closed between two hard fingers that
smelled of horse.

Whoever had her, she was helpless. Lucy's fury admitted of reason. Then
both succumbed to a paralyzing horror. Cordts had got her! She knew it. She
grew limp as a rag and her senses dulled. She almost fainted. The sickening
paralysis of her faculties lingered. But she felt her body released—
she was placed upon her feet—she was shaken by a rough hand. She
swayed, and but for that hand might have fallen. She could see a tall, dark
form over her, and horses, and the gloomy gray open of the sage slope. The
hand left her face.

"Don't yap, girl!" This command in a hard, low voice pierced her ears. She
saw the glint of a gun held before her. Instinctive fear revived her old
faculties. The horrible sick weakness, the dimness, the shaking internal
collapse all left her.

"I'll—be—quiet!" she faltered. She knew what her father had
always feared had come to pass. And though she had been told to put no value
on her life, in that event, she could not run. All in an instant—when
life had been so sweet—she could not face pain or death.

The man moved back a step. He was tall, gaunt, ragged. But not like
Cordts! Never would she forget Cordts. She peered up at him. In the dim light
of the few stars she recognized Joel Creech's father.

"Oh, thank God!" she whispered, in the shock of blessed relief. I thought
—you were—Cordts!"

"Keep quiet," he whispered back, sternly, and with rough hand he shook
her.

Lucy awoke to realities. Something evil menaced her, even though this man
was not Cordts. Her mind could not grasp it. She was amazed—stunned.
She struggled to speak, yet to keep within that warning command.

"What—on earth—does this-mean?" she gasped, very low. She had
no sense of fear of Creech. Once, when he and her father had been friends,
she had been a favorite of Creech's. When a little girl she had ridden his
knee many times. Between Creech and Cordts there was immeasurable distance.
Yet she had been violently seized and carried out into the sage and
menaced.

Creech leaned down. His gaunt face, lighted by terrible eyes, made her
recoil. "Bostil ruined me—an' killed my hosses," he whispered, grimly.
"An' I'm takin' you away. An' I'll hold you in ransom for the King an'
Sarchedon—an' all his racers!"

"Oh!" cried Lucy, in startling surprise that yet held a pang. "Oh, Creech!
... Then you mean me no harm!"

The man straightened up and stood a moment, darkly silent, as if her query
had presented a new aspect of the case. "Lucy Bostil, I'm a broken man an'
wild an' full of hate. But God knows I never thought of thet—of harm to
you.... No, child, I won't harm you. But you must obey an' go quietly, for
there's a devil in me."

"Where will you take me?" she asked.

"Down in the canyons, where no one can track me," he said. "It'll be hard
goin' fer you, child, an' hard fare.... But I'm strikin' at Bostil's heart as
he has broken mine. I'll send him word. An' I'll tell him if he won't give
his hosses thet I'll sell you to Cordts."

"Oh, Creech—but you wouldn't!" she whispered, and her hand went to
his brawny arm.

"Lucy, in thet case I'd make as poor a blackguard as anythin' else I've
been," he said, forlornly. "But I'm figgerin' Bostil will give up his hosses
fer you."

"Thet ain't no use," he replied. "Don't talk no more.... Git up hyar now
an' ride in front of me."

He led her to a lean mustang. Lucy swung into the saddle. She thought how
singular a coincidence it was that she had worn a riding-habit. It was dark
and thick, and comfortable for riding. Suppose she had worn the flimsy dress,
in which she had met Slone every night save this one? Thought of Slone gave
her a pang. He would wait and wait and wait. He would go back to his cabin,
not knowing what had befallen her.

Suddenly Lucy noticed another man, near at hand, holding two mustangs. He
mounted, rode before her, and then she recognized Joel Creech. Assurance of
this brought back something of the dread. But the father could control the
son!

"Ride on," said Creech, hitting her horse from behind.

And Lucy found herself riding single file, with two men and a pack-horse,
out upon the windy, dark sage slope. They faced the direction of the
monuments, looming now and then so weirdly black and grand against the broad
flare of lightning-blazed sky.

Ever since Lucy had reached her teens there had been predictions that she
would be kidnapped, and now the thing had come to pass. She was in danger,
she knew, but in infinitely less than had any other wild character of the
uplands been her captor. She believed, if she went quietly and obediently
with Creech, that she would be, at least, safe from harm. It was hard luck
for Bostil, she thought, but no worse than he deserved. Retribution had
overtaken him. How terribly hard he would take the loss of his horses! Lucy
wondered if he really ever would part with the King, even to save her from
privation and peril. Bostil was more likely to trail her with his riders and
to kill the Creeches than to concede their demands. Perhaps, though, that
threat to sell her to Cordts would frighten the hard old man.

The horses trotted and swung up over the slope, turning gradually,
evidently to make a wide detour round the Ford, until Lucy's back was toward
the monuments. Before her stretched the bleak, barren, dark desert, and
through the opaque gloom she could see nothing. Lucy knew she was headed for
the north, toward the wild canyons, unknown to the riders. Cordts and his
gang hid in there. What might not happen if the Creeches fell in with Cordts?
Lucy's confidence sustained a check. Still, she remembered the Creeches were
like Indians. And what would Slone do? He would ride out on her trail. Lucy
shivered for the Creeches if Slone ever caught up with them, and remembering
his wild-horse-hunter's skill at tracking, and the fleet and tireless
Wildfire, she grew convinced that Creech could not long hold her captive. For
Slone would be wary. He would give no sign of his pursuit. He would steal
upon the Creeches in the dark and—Lucy shivered again. What an awful
fate had been that of Dick Sears!

So as she rode on Lucy's mind was full. She was used to riding, and in the
motion of a horse there was something in harmony with her blood. Even now,
with worry and dread and plotting strong upon her, habit had such power over
her that riding made the hours fleet. She was surprised to be halted, to see
dimly low, dark mounds of rock ahead.

"Git off," said Creech.

"Where are we?" asked Lucy.

"Reckon hyar's the rocks. An' you sleep some, fer you'll need it." He
spread a blanket, laid her saddle at the head of it, and dropped another
blanket. "What I want to know is—shall I tie you up or not?" asked
Creech. "If I do you'll git sore. An' this'll be the toughest trip you ever
made."

"You mean will I try to get away from you—or not?" queried Lucy.

"Jest thet."

Lucy pondered. She divined some fineness of feeling in this coarse man. He
wanted to spare her not only pain, but the necessity of watchful eyes on her
every moment. Lucy did not like to promise not to try to escape, if
opportunity presented. Still, she reasoned, that once deep in the canyons,
where she would be in another day, she would be worse off if she did get
away. The memory of Cordts's cavernous, hungry eyes upon her was not a small
factor in Lucy's decision.

Lucy pondered. She divined some fineness of feeling in
this coarse man.

"Creech, if I give my word not to try to get away, would you believe me?"
she asked.

Creech was slow in replying. "Reckon I would," he said, finally.

"All right, I'll give it."

"An' thet's sense. Now you lay down."

Lucy did as she was bidden and pulled the blanket over her. The place was
gloomy and still. She heard the sound of mustangs' teeth on grass, and the
soft footfalls of the men. Presently these sounds ceased. A cold wind blew
over her face and rustled in the sage near her. Gradually the chill passed
away, and a stealing warmth took its place. Her eyes grew tired. What had
happened to her? With eyes closed she thought it was all a dream. Then the
feeling of the hard saddle as a pillow under her head told her she was indeed
far from her comfortable little room. What would poor Aunt Jane do in the
morning when she discovered who was missing? What would Holley do? When would
Bostil return? It might be soon and it might be days. And Slone—Lucy
felt sorriest for him. For he loved her best. She thrilled at thought of
Slone on that grand horse—on her Wildfire. And with her mind running on
and on, seemingly making sleep impossible, the thoughts at last became
dreams. Lucy awakened at dawn. One hand ached with cold, for it had been
outside the blanket. Her hard bed had cramped her muscles. She heard the
crackling of fire and smelled cedar smoke. In the gray of morning she saw the
Creeches round a camp-fire.

Lucy got up then. Both men saw her, but made no comment. In that cold,
gray dawn she felt her predicament more gravely. Her hair was damp. She had
ridden nearly all night without a hat. She had absolutely nothing of her own
except what was on her body. But Lucy thanked her lucky stars that she had
worn the thick riding-suit and her boots, for otherwise, in a summer dress,
her condition would soon have been miserable.

"Come an' eat," said Creech. "You have sense—an' eat if it sticks in
your throat."

Bostil had always contended in his arguments with riders that a man should
eat heartily on the start of a trip so that the finish might find him strong.
And Lucy ate, though the coarse fare sickened her. Once she looked curiously
at Joel Creech. She felt his eyes upon her, but instantly he averted them. He
had grown more haggard and sullen than ever before.

The Creeches did not loiter over the camp tasks. Lucy was left to herself.
The place appeared to be a kind of depression from which the desert rolled
away to a bulge against the rosy east, and the rocks behind rose broken and
yellow, fringed with cedars.

"Git the hosses in, if you want to," Creech called to her, and then as
Lucy started off to where the mustangs grazed she heard him curse his son.
"Come back hyar! Leave the girl alone or I'll rap you one!"

Lucy drove three of the mustangs into camp, where Creech began to saddle
them. The remaining one, the pack animal, Lucy found among the scrub cedars
at the base of the low cliffs. When she drove him in Creech was talking hard
to Joel, who had mounted.

"When you come back, work up this canyon till you git up. It heads on the
pine plateau. I can't miss seein' you, or any one, long before you git up on
top. An' you needn't come without Bostil's hosses. You know what to tell
Bostil if he threatens you, or refuses to send his hosses, or turns his
riders on my trail. Thet's all. Now git!"

Joel Creech rode away toward the rise in the rolling, barren desert.

"An' now we'll go on," said Creech to Lucy.

When he had gotten all in readiness he ordered Lucy to follow closely in
his tracks. He entered a narrow cleft in the low cliffs which wound in and
out, and was thick with sage and cedars. Lucy, riding close to the cedars,
conceived the idea of plucking the little green berries and dropping them on
parts of the trail where their tracks would not show. Warily she filled the
pockets of her jacket.

Creech led the way without looking back, and did not seem to care where
the horses stepped. The time had not yet come, Lucy concluded, when he was
ready to hide his trail. Presently the narrow cleft opened into a low-walled
canyon, full of debris from the rotting cliffs, and this in turn opened into
a main canyon with mounting yellow crags. It appeared to lead north. Far in
the distance above rims and crags rose in a long, black line like a horizon
of dark cloud.

Creech crossed this wide canyon and entered one of the many breaks in the
wall. This one was full of splintered rock and weathered shale—the
hardest kind of travel for both man and beast. Lucy was nothing if not
considerate of a horse, and here she began to help her animal in all the ways
a good rider knows. Much as this taxed her attention, she remembered to drop
some of the cedar berries upon hard ground or rocks. And she knew she was
leaving a trail for Slone's keen eyes.

That day was the swiftest and the most strenuous in all Lucy Bostil's
experience in the open. At sunset, when Creech halted in a niche in a gorge
between lowering cliffs, Lucy fell off her horse and lay still and spent on
the grass.

Creech had a glance of sympathy and admiration for her, but he did not say
anything about the long day's ride. Lucy never in her life before appreciated
rest nor the softness of grass nor the relief at the end of a ride. She lay
still with a throbbing, burning ache in all her body. Creech, after he had
turned the horses loose, brought her a drink of cold water from the brook she
heard somewhere near by.

"How—far—did—we—come?" she whispered.

"By the way round I reckon nigh on to sixty miles," he replied. "But we
ain't half thet far from where we camped last night."

Then he set to work at camp tasks. Lucy shook her head when he brought her
food, but he insisted, and she had to force it down. Creech appeared rough
but kind. After she had become used to the hard, gaunt, black face she saw
sadness and thought in it. One thing Lucy had noticed was that Creech never
failed to spare a horse, if it was possible. He would climb on foot over bad
places.

Night soon mantled the gorge in blackness thick as pitch. Lucy could not
tell whether her eyes were open or shut, so far as what she saw was
concerned. Her eyes seemed filled, however, with a thousand pictures of the
wild and tortuous canyons and gorges through which she had ridden that day.
The ache in her limbs and the fever in her blood would not let her sleep. It
seemed that these were forever to be a part of her. For twelve hours she had
ridden and walked with scarce a thought of the nature of the wild country,
yet once she lay down to rest her mind was an endless hurrying procession of
pictures—narrow red clefts choked with green growths—yellow
gorges and weathered slides—dusty, treacherous divides connecting
canyons—jumbles of ruined cliffs and piles of shale—miles and
miles and endless winding miles yellow, low, beetling walls. And through it
all she had left a trail.

Next day Creech climbed out of that low-walled canyon, and Lucy saw a
wild, rocky country cut by gorges, green and bare, or yellow and cedared. The
long, black-fringed line she had noticed the day before loomed closer;
overhanging this crisscrossed region of canyons. Every half-hour Creech would
lead them downward and presently climb out again. There were sand and hard
ground and thick turf and acres and acres of bare rock where even a shod
horse would not leave a track.

But the going was not so hard—there was not so much travel on foot
for Lucy—and she finished that day in better condition than the first
one.

Next day Creech proceeded with care and caution. Many times he left the
direct route, bidding Lucy wait for him, and he would ride to the rims of
canyons or the tops of ridges of cedar forests, and from these vantage-points
he would survey the country. Lucy gathered after a while that he was
apprehensive of what might be encountered, and particularly so of what might
be feared in pursuit. Lucy thought this strange, because it was out of the
question for any one to be so soon on Creech's trail.

These peculiar actions of Creech were more noticeable on the third day,
and Lucy grew apprehensive herself. She could not divine why. But when Creech
halted on a high crest that gave a sweeping vision of the broken table-land
they had traversed Lucy made out for herself faint moving specks miles
behind.

"I reckon you see thet," said Creech

"Horses," replied Lucy.

He nodded his head gloomily, and seemed pondering a serious question.

"Is some one trailing us?" asked Lucy, and she could not keep the tremor
out of her voice.

"Wal, I should smile! Fer two days-an' it sure beats me. They've never had
a sight of us. But they keep comin'."

"They! Who?" she asked, swiftly.

"I hate to tell you, but I reckon I ought. Thet's Cordts an' two of his
gang."

"Oh—don't tell me so!" cried Lucy, suddenly terrified. Mention of
Cordts had not always had power to frighten her, but this time she had a
return of that shaking fear which had overcome her in the grove the night she
was captured.

"Cordts all right," replied Creech. "I knowed thet before I seen him. Fer
two mornin's back I seen his hoss grazin in thet wide canyon. But I thought
I'd slipped by. Some one seen us. Or they seen our trail. Anyway, he's after
us. What beats me is how he sticks to thet trail. Cordts never was no
tracker. An' since Dick Sears is dead there ain't a tracker in Cordts's
outfit. An' I always could hide my tracks.... Beats me!"

"Creech, I've been leaving a trail," confessed Lucy.

"What!"

Then she told him how she had been dropping cedar berries and bits of
cedar leaves along the bare and stony course they had traversed.

"Wal, I'm—" Creech stifled an oath. Then he laughed, but gruffly.
"You air a cute one. But I reckon you didn't promise not to do thet.... An'
now if Cordts gits you there'll be only yourself to blame."

"Thet I can't say. Mebbe he doesn't know. His hosses air fresh, though,
an' if I can't shake him he'll find out soon enough who he's trailin'."

"Go on! We must shake him. I'll never do THAT again!... For God's sake,
Creech, don't let him get me!"

And Creech led down off the high open land into canyons again.

The day ended, and the night seemed a black blank to Lucy. Another sunrise
found Creech leading on, sparing neither Lucy nor the horses. He kept on a
steady walk or trot, and he picked out ground less likely to leave any
tracks. Like an old deer he doubled on his trail. He traveled down
stream-beds where the water left no trail. That day the mustangs began to
fail. The others were wearing out.

The canyons ran like the ribs of a wash-board. And they grew deep and
verdant, with looming, towered walls. That night Lucy felt lost in an abyss.
The dreaming silence kept her awake many moments while sleep had already
seized upon her eyelids. And then she dreamed of Cordts capturing her, of
carrying her miles deeper into these wild and purple cliffs, of Slone in
pursuit on the stallion Wildfire, and of a savage fight. And she awoke
terrified and cold in the blackness of the night.

On the next day Creech traveled west. This seemed to Lucy to be far to the
left of the direction taken before. And Lucy, in spite of her utter
weariness, and the necessity of caring for herself and her horse, could not
but wonder at the wild and frowning canyon. It was only a tributary of the
great canyon, she supposed, but it was different, strange, impressive, yet
intimate, because all about it was overpowering, near at hand, even the
beetling crags. And at every turn it seemed impossible to go farther over
that narrow and rock-bestrewn floor. Yet Creech found a way on.

Then came hours of climbing such slopes and benches and ledges as Lucy had
not yet encountered. The grasping spikes of dead cedar tore her dress to
shreds, and many a scratch burned her flesh. About the middle of the
afternoon Creech led up over the last declivity, a yellow slope of cedar, to
a flat upland covered with pine and high bleached grass. They rested.

"We've fooled Cordts, you can be sure of thet," said Creech. "You're a
game kid, an', by Gawd! if I had this job to do over I'd never tackle it
again!"

"Oh, you're sure we've lost him?" implored Lucy.

"Sure as I am of death. An' we'll make surer in crossin' this bench. It's
miles to the other side where I'm to keep watch fer Joel. An' we won't leave
a track all the way."

"But this grass?" questioned Lucy. "It'll show our tracks."

"Look at the lanes an' trails between. All pine mats thick an' soft an'
springy. Only an Indian could follow us hyar on Wild Hoss Bench."

Lucy gazed before her under the pines. It was a beautiful forest, with
trees standing far apart, yet not so far but that their foliage intermingled.
A dry fragrance, thick as a heavy perfume, blew into her face. She could not
help but think of fire—how it would race through here, and that
recalled Joel Creech's horrible threat. Lucy shuddered and put away the
memory. "I can't go—any farther—to-day, " she said.

Creech looked at her compassionately. Then Lucy became conscious that of
late he had softened.

"You'll have to come," he said. "There's no water on this side, short of
thet canyon-bed. An' acrost there's water close under the wall."

So they set out into the forest. And Lucy found that after all she could
go on. The horses walked and on the soft, springy ground did not jar her.
Deer and wild turkey abounded there and showed little alarm at sight of the
travelers. And before long Lucy felt that she would become intoxicated by the
dry odor. It was so strong, so thick, so penetrating. Yet, though she felt
she would reel under its influence, it revived her.

The afternoon passed; the sun set off through the pines, a black-streaked,
golden flare; twilight shortly changed to night. The trees looked spectral in
the gloom, and the forest appeared to grow thicker. Wolves murmured, and
there were wild cries of cat and owl. Lucy fell asleep on her horse. At last,
sometime late in the night, when Creech lifted her from the saddle and laid
her down, she stretched out on the soft mat of pine needles and knew no
more.

She did not awaken until the afternoon of the next day. The site where
Creech had made his final camp overlooked the wildest of all that wild upland
country. The pines had scattered and trooped around a beautiful park of grass
that ended abruptly upon bare rock. Yellow crags towered above the rim, and
under them a yawning narrow gorge, overshadowed from above, blue in its
depths, split the end of the great plateau and opened out sheer into the head
of the canyon, which, according to Creech, stretched away through that
wilderness of red stone and green clefts. When Lucy's fascinated gaze looked
afar she was stunned at the vast, billowy, bare surfaces. Every green cleft
was a short canyon running parallel with this central and longer one. The
dips and breaks showed how all these canyons were connected. They led the
gaze away, descending gradually to the dim purple of distance—the bare,
rolling desert upland.

Lucy did nothing but gaze. She was unable to walk or eat that day. Creech
hung around her with a remorse he apparently felt, yet could not put into
words.

"Do you expect Joel to come up this big canyon?"

"I reckon I do—some day," replied Creech. "An' I wish he'd
hurry."

"Does he know the way?"

"Nope. But he's good at findin' places. An' I told him to stick to the
main canyon. Would you believe you could ride offer this rim, straight down
thar fer fifty miles, an' never git off your hoss?"

"No, I wouldn't believe it possible."

"Wal, it's so. I've done it. An' I didn't want to come up thet way because
I'd had to leave tracks."

"Do you think we're safe—from Cordts now?" she asked.

"I reckon so. He's no tracker."

"But suppose he does trail us?"

"Wal, I reckon I've a shade the best of Cordts at gun-play, any day."

Lucy regarded the man in surprise. "Oh, it's so—strange!" she said.
"You'd fight for me. Yet you dragged me for days over these awful rocks!...
Look at me, Creech. Do I look much like Lucy Bostil?"

Creech hung his head. "Wal, I reckoned I wasn't a blackguard, but I
am."

"You used to care for me when I was little. I remember how I used to take
rides on your knee."

"Lucy, I never thought of thet when I ketched you. You was only a means to
an end. Bostil hated me. He ruined me. I give up to revenge. An' I could only
git thet through you."

"Creech, I'm not defending Dad. He's—he's no good where horses are
concerned. I know he wronged you. Then why didn't you wait and meet him like
a man instead of dragging me to this misery?"

"Wal, I never thought of thet, either. I wished I had." He grew gloomier
then and relapsed into silent watching.

Lucy felt better next day, and offered to help Creech at the few camp
duties. He would not let her. There was nothing to do but rest and wait, and
the idleness appeared to be harder on Creech than on Lucy. He had always been
exceedingly active. Lucy divined that every hour his remorse grew keener, and
she did all she could think of to make it so. Creech made her a rude brush by
gathering small roots and binding them tightly and cutting the ends square.
And Lucy, after the manner of an Indian, got the tangles out of her hair.
That day Creech seemed to want to hear Lucy's voice, and so they often fell
into conversation. Once he said, thoughtfully:

"I'm tryin' to remember somethin' I heerd at the Ford. I meant to ask you
—" Suddenly he turned to her with animation. He who had been so gloomy
and lusterless and dead showed a bright eagerness. "I heerd you beat the King
on a red hoss—a wild hoss!... Thet must have been a joke—like one
of Joel's."

"No. It's true. An' Dad nearly had a fit!"

"Wal!" Creech simply blazed with excitement. "I ain't wonderin' if he did.
His own girl! Lucy, come to remember, you always said you'd beat thet gray
racer... Fer the Lord's sake tell me all about it."

Lucy warmed to him because, broken as he was, he could be genuinely glad
some horse but his own had won a race. Bostil could never have been like
that. So Lucy told him about the race—and then she had to tell about
Wildfire, and then about Slone. But at first all of Creech's interest
centered round Wildfire and the race that had not really been run. He asked a
hundred questions. He was as pleased as a boy listening to a good story. He
praised Lucy again and again. He crowed over Bostil's discomfiture. And when
Lucy told him that Slone had dared her father to race, had offered to bet
Wildfire and his own life against her hand, then Creech was beside
himself.

"I'd have done the same. Wal, now, when you git back home what's comin' of
it all?"

Lucy shook her head sorrowfully. "God only knows. Dad will never own
Wildfire, and he'll never let me marry Slone. And when you take the King away
from him to ransom me—then my life will be hell, for if Dad sacrifices
Sage King, afterward he'll hate me as the cause of his loss."

"I can sure see the sense of all that," replied Creech, soberly. And he
pondered.

Lucy saw through this man as if he had been an inch of crystal water. He
was no villain, and just now in his simplicity, in his plodding thought of
sympathy for her he was lovable.

"It's one hell of a muss, if you'll excuse my talk," said Creech. "An' I
don't like the looks of what I 'pear to be throwin' in your way.... But see
hyar, Lucy, if Bostil didn't give up—or, say, he gits the King back,
thet wouldn't make your chance with Slone any brighter."

"I don't know."

"Thet race will have to be ran!"

"What good will that do?" cried Lucy, with tears in her eyes. "I don't
want to lose Dad. I—I—love him—mean as he is. And it'll
kill me to lose Lin. Because Wildfire can beat Sage King, and that means Dad
will be forever against him."

"Couldn't this wild-horse feller let the King win thet race?"

"Oh, he could, but he wouldn't."

"Can't you be sweet round him—fetch him over to thet?"

"Oh, I could, but I won't."

Creech might have been plotting the happiness of his own daughter, he was
so deeply in earnest.

"Wal, mebbe you don't love each other so much, after all.... Fast hosses
mean much to a man in this hyar country. I know, fer I lost mine!... But they
ain't all.... I reckon you young folks don't love so much, after all."

"But—we—do!" cried Lucy, with a passionate sob. All this talk
had unnerved her.

"Then the only way is fer Slone to lie to Bostil."

"Lie!" exclaimed Lucy.

"Thet's it. Fetch about a race, somehow—one Bostil can't see
—an' then lie an' say the King run Wildfire off his legs."

Suddenly it occurred to Lucy that one significance of this idea of
Creech's had not dawned upon him. "You forget that soon my father will no
longer own Sage King or Sarchedon or Dusty Ben—or any racer. He loses
them or me, I thought. That's what I am here for."

Creech's aspect changed. The eagerness and sympathy fled from his face,
leaving it once more hard and stern. He got up and stood a tall, dark, and
gloomy man, brooding over his loss, as he watched the canyon. Still, there
was in him then a struggle that Lucy felt. Presently he bent over and put his
big hand on her head. It seemed gentle and tender compared with former
contacts, and it made Lucy thrill. She could not see his face. What did he
mean? She divined something startling, and sat there trembling in
suspense.

"Bostil won't lose his only girl—or his favorite hoss!... Lucy, I
never had no girl. But it seems I'm rememberin' them rides you used to have
on my knee when you was little!"

Then he strode away toward the forest. Lucy watched him with a full heart,
and as she thought of his overcoming the evil in him when her father had
yielded to it, she suffered poignant shame. This Creech was not a bad man. He
was going to let her go, and he was going to return Bostil's horses when they
came. Lucy resolved with a passionate determination that her father must make
ample restitution for the loss Creech had endured. She meant to tell Creech
so.

Upon his return, however, he seemed so strange and forbidding again that
her heart failed her. Had he reconsidered his generous thought? Lucy almost
believed so. These old horse-traders were incomprehensible in any relation
concerning horses. Recalling Creech's intense interest in Wildfire and in the
inevitable race to be run between him and Sage King, Lucy almost believed
that Creech would sacrifice his vengeance just to see the red stallion beat
the gray. If Creech kept the King in ransom for Lucy he would have to stay
deeply hidden in the wild breaks of the canyon country or leave the uplands.
For Bostil would never let that deed go unreckoned with. Like Bostil, old
Creech was half horse and half human. The human side had warmed to remorse.
He had regretted Lucy's plight; he wanted her to be safe at home again and to
find happiness; he remembered what she had been to him when she was a little
girl. Creech's other side was more complex.

Before the evening meal ended Lucy divined that Creech was dark and
troubled because he had resigned himself to a sacrifice harder than it had
seemed in the first flush of noble feeling. But she doubted him no more. She
was safe. The King would be returned. She would compel her father to pay
Creech horse for horse. And perhaps the lesson to Bostil would be worth all
the pain of effort and distress of mind that it had cost her.

That night as she lay awake listening to the roar of the wind in the pines
a strange premonition—like a mysterious voice—-came to her with
the assurance that Slone was on her trail.

On the following day Creech appeared to have cast off the brooding mood.
Still, he was not talkative. He applied himself to constant watching from the
rim.

Lucy began to feel rested. That long trip with Creech had made her thin
and hard and strong. She spent the hours under the shade of a cedar on the
rim that protected her from sun and wind. The wind, particularly, was hard to
stand. It blew a gale out of the west, a dry, odorous, steady rush that
roared through the pine-tops and flattened the long, white grass. This day
Creech had to build up a barrier of rock round his camp-fire, to keep it from
blowing away. And there was a constant danger of firing the grass.

Once Lucy asked Creech what would happen in that case.

"Wal, I reckon the grass would burn back even ag'in thet wind," replied
Creech. "I'd hate to see fire in the woods now before the rains come. It's
been the longest, dryest spell I ever lived through. But fer thet my hosses
—This hyar's a west wind, an' it's blowin' harder every day. It'll
fetch the rains."

Next day about noon, when both wind and heat were high, Lucy was awakened
from a doze. Creech was standing near her. When he turned his long gaze away
from the canyon he was smiling. It was a smile at once triumphant and
sad.

"Joel's comin' with the hosses!"

Lucy jumped up, trembling and agitated. "Oh!... Where? Where?"

Creech pointed carefully with bent hand, like an Indian, and Lucy either
could not get the direction or see far enough.

"Right down along the base of thet red wall. A line of hosses. Jest like a
few crawlin' ants'... An' now they're creepin' out of sight."

"Oh, I can't see them!" cried Lucy. "Are you sure?"

"Positive an' sartin," he replied. "Joel's comin'. He'll be up hyar before
long. I reckon we'd jest as well let him come. Fer there's water an' grass
hyar. An' down below grass is scarce."

It seemed an age to Lucy, waiting there, until she did see horses
zigzagging the ridges below. They disappeared, and then it was another age
before they reappeared close under the bulge of wall. She thrilled at sight
of Sage King and Sarchedon. She got only a glimpse of them. They must pass
round under her to climb a split in the wall, and up a long draw that reached
level ground back in the forest. But they were near, and Lucy tried to wait.
Creech showed eagerness at first, and then went on with his camp-fire duties.
While in camp he always cooked a midday meal.

Lucy saw the horses first. She screamed out. Creech jumped up in
alarm.

Joel Creech, mounted on Sage King, and leading Sarchedon, was coming at a
gallop. The other horses were following.

"What's his hurry?" demanded Lucy. "After climbing out of that canyon Joel
ought not to push the horses."

"He'll git it from me if there's no reason," growled Creech. "Them hosses
is wet."

"Look at Sarch! He's wild. He always hated Joel."

"Wal, Lucy, I reckon I ain't likin' this hyar. Look at Joel!" muttered
Creech, and he strode out to meet his son.

Lucy ran out too, and beyond him. She saw only Sage King. He saw her,
recognized her, and, whistled even while Joel was pulling him in. For once
the King showed he was glad to see Lucy. He had been having rough treatment.
But he was not winded—only hot and wet. She assured herself of that,
then ran to quiet the plunging Sarch. He came down at once, and pushed his
big nose almost into her face. She hugged his great, hot neck. He was
quivering all over. Lucy heard the other horses pounding up; she recognized
Two Face's high whinny, like a squeal; and in her delight she was about to
run to them when Creech's harsh voice arrested her. And sight of Joel's face
suddenly made her weak.

"What'd you say?" demanded Creech.

"I'd a good reason to run the hosses up-hill—thet's what!" snapped
Joel. He was frothing at the mouth.

"Out with it!"

"Cordts an' Hutch!"

"What?" roared Creech, grasping the pale Joel and shaking him.

"Cordts an' Hutch rode in behind me down at thet cross canyon. They seen
me. An' they're after me hard!"

Creech gave close and keen scrutiny to the strange face of his son. Then
he wheeled away.

"Help me pack. An' you, too, Lucy. We've got to rustle out of hyar."

Lucy fought a sick faintness that threatened to make her useless. But she
tried to help, and presently action made her stronger.

The Creeches made short work of that breaking of camp. But when it came to
getting the horses there appeared danger of delay. Sarchedon had led Dusty
Ben and Two Face off in the grass. When Joel went for them they galloped away
toward the woods. Joel ran back.

"Son, you're a smart hossman!" exclaimed Creech, in disgust.

"Shall I git on the King an' ketch them?"

"No. Hold the King." Creech went out after Plume, but the excited and wary
horse eluded him. Then Creech gave up, caught his own mustangs, and hurried
into camp.

"Lucy, if Cordts gits after Sarch an' the others it'll be as well fer us,"
he said.

Soon they were riding into the forest, Creech leading, Lucy in the center,
and Joel coming behind on the King. Two unsaddled mustangs carrying the packs
were driven in front. Creech limited the gait to the best that the
pack-horses could do. They made fast time. The level forest floor, hard and
springy, afforded the best kind of going.

A cold dread had once more clutched Lucy's heart. What would be the end of
this flight? The way Creech looked back increased her dread. How horrible it
would be if Cordts accomplished what he had always threatened—to run
off with both her and the King! Lucy lost her confidence in Creech. She did
not glance again at Joel. Once had been enough. She rode on with heavy heart.
Anxiety and dread and conjecture and a gradual sinking of spirit weighed her
down. Yet she never had a clearer perception of outside things. The forest
loomed thicker and darker. The sky was seen only through a green, crisscross
of foliage waving in the roaring gale. This strong wind was like a blast in
Lucy's face, and its keen dryness cracked her lips.

When they rode out of the forest, down a gentle slope of wind-swept grass,
to an opening into a canyon Lucy was surprised to recognize the place. How
quickly the ride through the forest had been made!

Creech dismounted. "Git off, Lucy. You, Joel, hurry an' hand me the little
pack.... Now I'll take Lucy an' the King down in hyar. You go thet way with
the hosses an' make as if you was hidin' your trail, but don't. Do you
savvy?"

Joel shook his head. He looked sullen, somber, strange. His father
repeated what he had said.

"You're wantin' Cordts to split on the trail?" asked Joel.

"Sure. He'll ketch up with you sometime. But you needn't be afeared if he
does."

"I ain't a-goin' to do thet."

"Why not?" Creech demanded, slowly, with a rising voice.

"I'm a-goin' with you. What d'ye mean, Dad, by this move? You'll be
headin' back fer the Ford. An' we'd git safer if we go the other way."

Creech evidently controlled his temper by an effort. "I'm takin' Lucy an'
the King back to Bostil."

But Creech never finished what he meant to say. Joel Creech was suddenly
seized by a horrible madness. It was then, perhaps, that the final thread
which linked his mind to rationality stretched and snapped. His face turned
green. His strange eyes protruded. His jaw worked. He frothed at the mouth.
He leaped, apparently to get near his father, but he missed his direction.
Then, as if sight had come back, he wheeled and made strange gestures, all
the while cursing incoherently. The father's shocked face began to show
disgust. Then part of Joel's ranting became intelligible.

"Shut up!" suddenly roared Creech.

"No, I won't!" shrieked Joel, wagging his head in spent passion. "An' you
ain't a-goin' to take thet girl home.... I'll take her with me.... An' you
take the hosses home!"

Lucy saw old Creech lunge and strike. She heard the sodden blow. Joel went
down. But he scrambled up with his eyes and mouth resembling those of a mad
hound Lucy once had seen. The fact that he reached twice for his gun and
could not find it proved the breaking connection of nerve and sense. Creech
jumped and grappled with Joel. There was a wrestling, strained struggle.
Creech's hair stood up and his face had a kind of sick fury, and he continued
to curse and command. They fought for the possession of the gun. But Joel
seemed to have superhuman strength. His hold on the gun could not be broken.
Moreover, he kept straining to point the gun at his father. Lucy screamed.
Creech yelled hoarsely. But the boy was beyond reason or help, and he was
beyond over powering! Lucy saw him bend his arm in spite of the desperate
hold upon it and fire the gun. Creech's hoarse entreaties ceased as his hold
on Joel broke. He staggered. His arms went up with a tragic, terrible
gesture. He fell. Joel stood over him, shaking and livid, but he showed only
the vaguest realization of the deed. His actions were instinctive. He was the
animal that had clawed himself free. Further proof of his aberration stood
out in the action of sheathing his gun; he made the motion to do so, but he
only dropped it in the grass.

Sight of that dropped gun broke Lucy's spell of horror, which had kept her
silent but for one scream. Suddenly her blood leaped like fire in her veins.
She measured the distance to Sage King. Joel was turning. Then Lucy darted at
the King, reached him, and, leaping, was half up on him when he snorted and
jumped, not breaking her hold, but keeping her from getting up. Then iron
hands clutched her and threw her, like an empty sack, to the grass.

Joel Creech did not say a word. His distorted face had the deriding scorn
of a superior being. Lucy lay flat on her back, watching him. Her mind worked
swiftly. She would have to fight for her body and her life. Her terror had
fled with her horror. She was not now afraid of this demented boy. She meant
to fight, calculating like a cunning Indian, wild as a trapped wildcat.

Lucy lay perfectly still, for she knew she had been thrown near the spot
where the gun lay. If she got her hands on that gun she would kill Joel. It
would be the action of an instant. She watched Joel while he watched her. And
she saw that he had his foot on the rope round Sage King's neck. The King
never liked a rope. He was nervous. He tossed his head to get rid of it.
Creech, watching Lucy all the while, reached for the rope, pulled the King
closer and closer, and untied the knot. The King stood then, bridle down and
quiet. Instead of a saddle he wore a blanket strapped round him.

It seemed that Lucy located the gun without turning her eyes away from
Joel's. She gathered all her force—rolled over swiftly—again
—got her hands on the gun just as Creech leaped like a panther upon
her. His weight crushed her flat—his strength made her hand-hold like
that of a child. He threw the gun aside. Lucy lay face down, unable to move
her body while he stood over her. Then he struck her, not a stunning blow,
but just the hard rap a cruel rider gives to a horse that wants its own way.
Under that blow Lucy's spirit rose to a height of terrible passion. Still she
did not lose her cunning; the blow increased it. That blow showed Joel to be
crazy. She might outwit a crazy man, where a man merely wicked might master
her.

Creech tried to turn her. Lucy resisted. And she was strong. Resistance
infuriated Creech. He cuffed her sharply. This action only made him worse.
Then with hands like steel claws he tore away her blouse.

The shock of his hands on her bare flesh momentarily weakened Lucy, and
Creech dragged at her until she lay seemingly helpless before him.

And Lucy saw that at the sight of her like this something had come between
Joel Creech's mad motives and their execution. Once he had loved her—
desired her. He looked vague. He stroked her shoulder. His strange eyes
softened, then blazed with a different light. Lucy divined that she was lost
unless she could recall his insane fury. She must begin that terrible fight
in which now the best she could hope for was to make him kill her
quickly.

Swift and vicious as a cat she fastened her teeth in his arm. She bit deep
and held on. Creech howled like a dog. He beat her. He jerked and wrestled.
Then he lifted her, and the swing of her body tore the flesh loose from his
arm and broke her hold. Lucy half rose, crawled, plunged for the gun. She got
it, too, only to have Creech kick it out of her hand. The pain of that brutal
kick was severe, but when he cut her across the bare back with the rope she
shrieked out. Supple and quick, she leaped up and ran. In vain! With a few
bounds he had her again, tripped her up. Lucy fell over the dead body of the
father. Yet even that did not shake her desperate nerve. All the ferocity of
a desert-bred savage culminated in her, fighting for death.

Creech leaned down, swinging the coiled rope. He meant to do more than
lash her with it. Lucy's hands flashed up, closed tight in his long hair.
Then with a bellow he jerked up and lifted her sheer off the ground. There
was an instant in which Lucy felt herself swung and torn; she saw everything
as a whirling blur; she felt an agony in her wrists at which Creech was
clawing. When he broke her hold there were handfuls of hair in Lucy's
fists.

She fell again and had not the strength to rise. But Creech was raging,
and little of his broken speech was intelligible. He knelt with a sharp knee
pressing her down. He cut the rope. Nimbly, like a rider in moments of
needful swiftness, he noosed one end of the rope round her ankle, then the
end of the other piece round her wrist. He might have been tying up an
unbroken mustang. Rising, he retained hold on both ropes. He moved back,
sliding them through his hands. Then with a quick move he caught up Sage
King's bridle.

Creech paused a moment, darkly triumphant. A hideous success showed in his
strange eyes. A long-cherished mad vengeance had reached its fruition. Then
he led the horse near to Lucy.

Warily he reached down. He did not know Lucy's strength was spent. He
feared she might yet escape. With hard, quick grasp he caught her, lifted
her, threw her over the King's back. He forced her down.

Lucy's resistance was her only salvation, because it kept him on the track
of his old threat. She resisted all she could. He pulled her arms down round
the King's neck and tied them close. Then he pulled hard on the rope on her
ankle and tied that to her other ankle.

Lucy realized that she was bound fast. Creech had made good most of his
threat. And now in her mind the hope of the death she had sought changed to
the hope of life that was possible. Whatever power she had ever had over the
King was in her voice. If only Creech would slip the bridle or cut the reins
—if only Sage King could be free to run!

Lucy could turn her face far enough to see Creech. Like a fiend he was
reveling in his work. Suddenly he picked up the gun.

"Look a-hyar!" he called, hoarsely.

With eyes on her, grinning horribly, he walked a few paces to where the
long grass had not been trampled or pressed down. The wind, whipping up out
of the canyon, was still blowing hard. Creech put the gun down in the grass
and fired.

Sage King plunged. But he was not gun-shy. He steadied down with a
pounding of heavy hoofs. Then Lucy could see again. A thin streak of yellow
smoke rose—a little snaky flame—a slight crackling hiss! Then as
the wind caught the blaze there came a rushing, low roar. Fire, like magic,
raced and spread before the wind toward the forest.

Lucy had forgotten that Creech had meant to drive her into fire. The
sudden horror of it almost caused collapse. Commotion within—cold and
quake and nausea and agony—deadened her hearing and darkened her sight.
But Creech's hard hands quickened her. She could see him then, though not
clearly. His face seemed inhuman, misshapen, gray. His hands pulled at her
arms—a last precaution to see that she was tightly bound. Then with the
deft fingers of a rider he slipped Sage King's bridle.

Lucy could not trust her sight. What made the King stand so still? His
ears went up—stiff—pointed!

Creech stepped back and laid a violent hand on Lucy's garments. She bent
—twisted her neck to watch him. But her sight grew no clearer. Still
she saw he meant to strip her naked. He braced himself for a strong, ripping
pull. His yellow teeth showed deep in his lip. His contrasting eyes were
alight with insane joy.

But he never pulled. Something attracted his attention. He looked. He saw
something. The beast in him became human—the madness changed to
rationality—the devil to a craven! His ashen lips uttered a low,
terrible cry.

Lucy felt the King trembling in every muscle. She knew that was flight.
She expected his loud snort, and was prepared for it when it rang out. In a
second he would bolt. She knew that. She thrilled. She tried to call to him,
but her lips were weak. Creech seemed paralyzed. The King shifted his
position, and Lucy's last glimpse of Creech was one she would never forget.
It was as if Creech faced burning hell!

Then the King whistled and reared. Lucy heard swift, dull, throbbing
beats. Beats of a fast horse's hoofs on the run! She felt a surging thrill of
joy. She could not think. All of her blood and bone and muscle seemed to
throb. Suddenly the air split to a high-pitched, wild, whistling blast. It
pierced to Lucy's mind. She knew that whistle.

"Wildfire!" she screamed, with bursting heart.

The King gave a mighty convulsive bound of terror. He, too, knew that
whistle. And in that one great bound he launched out into a run. Straight
across the line of burning grass! Lucy felt the sting of flame. Smoke blinded
and choked her. Then clear, dry, keen wind sung in her ears and whipped her
hair. The light about her darkened. The King had headed into the pines. The
heavy roar of the gale overhead struck Lucy with new and torturing dread.
Sage King once in his life was running away, bridleless, and behind him there
was fire on the wings of the wind.

FOR the first time in his experience Bostil found that
horse-trading palled upon him. This trip to Durango was a failure. Something
was wrong. There was a voice constantly calling into his inner ear—a
voice to which he refused to listen. And during the five days of the return
trip the strange mood grew upon him.

The last day he and his riders covered over fifty miles and reached the
Ford late at night. No one expected them, and only the men on duty at the
corrals knew of the return. Bostil, much relieved to get home, went to bed
and at once fell asleep.

He awakened at a late hour for him. When he dressed and went out to the
kitchen he found that his sister had learned of his return and had breakfast
waiting.

"Where's the girl?" asked Bostil.

"Not up yet," replied Aunt Jane.

"What!"

"Lucy and I had a tiff last night and she went to her room in a
temper."

"Nothin' new about thet."

"Holley and I have had our troubles holding her in. Don't you forget
that."

Bostil laughed. "Wal, call her an' tell her I'm home."

Aunt Jane did as she was bidden. Bostil finished his breakfast. But Lucy
did not come.

Bostil began to feel something strange, and, going to Lucy's door, he
knocked. There was no reply. Bostil pushed open the door. Lucy was not in
evidence, and her room was not as tidy as usual. He saw her white dress
thrown upon the bed she had not slept in. Bostil gazed around with a queer
contraction of the heart. That sense of something amiss grew stronger. Then
he saw a chair before the open window. That window was rather high, and Lucy
had placed a chair before it so that she could look out or get out. Bostil
stretched his neck, looked out, and in the red earth beneath the window he
saw fresh tracks of Lucy's boots. Then he roared for Jane.

She came running, and between Bostil's furious questions and her own
excited answers there was nothing arrived at. But presently she spied the
white dress, and then she ran to Lucy's closet. From there she turned a white
face to Bostil.

"She put on her riding-clothes!" gasped Aunt Jane.

"Supposin' she did! Where is she?" demanded Bostil.

"She's run off with Slone!"

Bostil could not have been shocked or hurt any more acutely by a
knife-thrust. He glared at his sister.

"A-huh! So thet's the way you watch her!"

"Watch her? It wasn't possible. She's—well, she's as smart as you
are.... Oh, I knew she'd do it! She was wild in love with him!"

Bostil strode out of the room and the house. He went through the grove and
directly up the path to Slone's cabin. It was empty, just as Bostil expected
to find it.

The bars of the corral were down. Both Slone's horses were gone. Presently
Bostil saw the black horse Nagger down in Brackton's pasture.

There were riders in front of Brackton's. All spoke at once to Bostil, and
he only yelled for Brackton. The old man came hurriedly out, alarmed.

Bostil waited to hear no more. What did he care about the idiot Creech? He
strode down the lane to the corrals. Farlane, Van, and other riders were
there, leisurely as usual. Then Holley appeared, coming out of the barn. He,
too, was easy, cool, natural, lazy. None of these riders knew what was amiss.
But instantly a change passed over them. It came because Bostil pulled a gun.
"Holley, I've a mind to bore you!"

The old hawk-eyed rider did not flinch or turn a shade off color. "What
fer?" he queried. But his customary drawl was wanting.

"I trusted Lucy," said Holley. "But all the same, knowin' she was in love,
I jest wanted to see if any girl in love could keep her word.... So about
dark I went down the grove an' watched fer Slone. Pretty soon I seen him. He
sneaked along the upper end an' I follered. He went to thet bench up by the
biggest cottonwood. An' he waited a long time. But Lucy didn't come. He must
have waited till midnight. Then he left. I watched him go back—seen him
go up to his cabin."

"Wal, if she didn't meet him, where was she? She wasn't in her room."

Bostil gazed at Holley and the other riders, then back to Holley. What was
the matter with this old rider? Bostil had never seen Holley seem so strange.
The whole affair began to loom strangely, darkly. Some portent quickened
Bostil's lumbering pulse. It seemed that Holley's mind must have found an
obstacle to thought. Suddenly the old rider's face changed—the bronze
was blotted out—a grayness came, and then a dead white.

"Bostil, mebbe you 'ain't been told yet thet—thet Creech rode in
yesterday.... He lost all his racers! He had to shoot both Peg an' Roan!"

Bostil's thought suffered a sudden, blank halt. Then, with realization,
came the shock for which he had long been prepared.

Holley started with rapid strides down the lane. Bostil followed. And he
heard the riders coming behind. A dark and gloomy thought settled upon
Bostil. He could not check that, but he held back impatience and passion.

Holley went straight to Lucy's window. He got down on his knees to
scrutinize the tracks.

"Made more 'n twelve hours ago," he said, swiftly. "She had on her boots,
but no spurs.... Now let's see where she went."

Holley began to trail Lucy's progress through the grove, silently pointing
now and then to a track. He went swifter, till Bostil had to hurry. The other
men came whispering after them.

Holley was as keen as a hound on scent.

"She stopped there," he said, "mebbe to listen. Looks like she wanted to
cross the lane, but she didn't: here she got to goin' faster."

Holley reached an intersecting path and suddenly halted stock-still,
pointing at a big track in the dust.

"My God!... Bostil, look at thet!"

One riving pang tore through Bostil—and then he was suddenly his old
self, facing the truth of danger to one he loved. He saw beside the big track
a faint imprint of Lucy's small foot. That was the last sign of her progress
and it told a story.

"Bostil, thet ain't Slone's track," said Holley, ringingly.

"Sure it ain't. Thet's the track of a big man," replied Bostil.

The other riders, circling round with bent heads, all said one way or
another that Slone could not have made the trail.

"An' whoever he was grabbed Lucy up—made off with her?" asked
Bostil.

"Plain as if we seen it done!" exclaimed Holley. There was fire in the
clear, hawk eyes.

"Cordts!" cried Bostil, hoarsely.

"Mebbe—mebbe. But thet ain't my idee.... Come on."

Holley went so fast he almost ran, and he got ahead of Bostil. Finally
several hundred yards out in the sage he halted, and again dropped to his
knees. Bostil and the riders hurried on.

"Keep back; don't stamp round so close," ordered Holley. Then like a man
searching for lost gold in sand and grass he searched the ground. To Bostil
it seemed a long time before he got through. When he arose there was a dark
and deadly certainty in his face, by which Bostil knew the worst had befallen
Lucy.

"Four mustangs an' two men last night," said Holley, rapidly. "Here's
where Lucy was set down on her feet. Here's where she mounted.... An' here's
the tracks of a third man—tracks made this mornin'."

Bostil straightened up and faced Holley as if ready to take a death-blow.
"I'm reckonin' them last is Slone's tracks."

"Yes, I know them," replied Holley.

"An'—them—other tracks? Who made them?"

"Creech an' his son!"

Bostil felt swept away by a dark, whirling flame. And when it passed he
lay in his barn, in the shade of the loft, prostrate on the fragrant hay. His
strength with his passion was spent. A dull ache remained. The fight was gone
from him. His spirit was broken. And he looked down into that dark abyss
which was his own soul.

By and by the riders came for him, got him up, and led him out. He shook
them off and stood breathing slowly. The air felt refreshing; it cooled his
hot, tired brain. It did not surprise him to see Joel Creech there, cringing
behind Holley.

Bostil lifted a hand for some one to speak. And Holley came a step
forward. His face was haggard, but its white tenseness was gone. He seemed as
if he were reluctant to speak, to inflict more pain.

"Bostil," he began, huskily, "you're to send the King—an' Sarch
—an' Ben an' Two Face an' Plume to ransom Lucy!... If you won't
—then Creech'll sell her to Cordts!"

What a strange look came into the faces of the riders! Did, they think he
cared more for horseflesh than for his own flesh and blood?

"Send the King—an' all he wants.... An' send word fer Creech to come
back to the Ford.... Tell him I said—my sin found me out!"

Bostil watched Joel Creech ride the King out upon the slope, driving the
others ahead. Sage King wanted to run. Sarchedon was wild and unruly. They
passed out of sight. Then Bostil turned to his silent riders.

"Boys, seein' the King go thet way wasn't nothin'.... But what crucifies
me is—will thet fetch her back?"

"Holley, you ain't figurin' on thet red hoss of Slone's ridin' down the
King?"

Holley laughed as if Bostil's query was the strangest thing of all that
poignant day. "Naw. Slone'll lay fer Joel an' rope him like he roped Dick
Sears."

"Holley, I reckon you see—clearer 'n me," said Bostil, plaintively.
"'Pears as if I never had a hard knock before. Fer my nerve's broke. I can't
hope.... Lucy's gone!... Ain't there anythin' to do but wait?"

"Thet's all. Jest wait. If we went out on Joel's trail we'd queer the
chance of Creech's bein' honest. An' we'd queer Slone's game. I'd hate to
have him trailin' me."

ON the day that old Creech repudiated his son, Slone with
immeasurable relief left Brackton's without even a word to the rejoicing
Holley, and plodded up the path to his cabin.

After the first flush of elation had passed he found a peculiar mood
settling down upon him. It was as if all was not so well as he had
impulsively conceived. He began to ponder over this strange depression, to
think back. What had happened to dash the cup from his lips? Did he regret
being freed from guilt in the simple minds of the villagers—regret it
because suspicion would fall upon Lucy's father? No; he was sorry for the
girl, but not for Bostil. It was not this new aspect of the situation at the
Ford that oppressed him.

He trailed his vague feelings back to a subtle shock he had sustained in a
last look at Creech's dark, somber face. It had been the face of a Nemesis.
All about Creech breathed silent, revengeful force. Slone worked out in his
plodding thought why that fact should oppress him; and it was because in
striking Bostil old Creech must strike through Bostil's horses and his
daughter.

Slone divined it—divined it by the subtle, intuitive power of his
love for Lucy. He did not reconsider what had been his supposition before
Creech's return—that Creech would kill Bostil. Death would be no
revenge. Creech had it in him to steal the King and starve him or to do the
same and worse with Lucy. So Slone imagined, remembering Creech's face.

Before twilight set in Slone saw the Creeches riding out of the lane into
the sage, evidently leaving the Ford. This occasioned Slone great relief, but
only for a moment. What the Creeches appeared to be doing might not be
significant. And he knew if they had stayed in the village that he would have
watched them as closely as if he thought they were trying to steal
Wildfire.

He got his evening meal, cared for his horses, and just as darkness came
on he slipped down into the grove for his rendezvous with Lucy. Always this
made his heart beat and his nerves thrill, but to-night he was excited. The
grove seemed full of moving shadows, all of which he fancied were Lucy.
Reaching the big cottonwood, he tried to compose himself on the bench to
wait. But composure seemed unattainable. The night was still, only the
crickets and the soft rustle of leaves breaking a dead silence. Slone had the
ears of a wild horse in that he imagined sounds he did not really hear. Many
a lonely night while he lay watching and waiting in the dark, ambushing a
water-hole where wild horses drank, he had heard soft treads that were only
the substance of dreams. That was why, on this night when he was
overstrained, he fancied he saw Lucy coming, a silent, moving shadow, when in
reality she did not come. That was why he thought he heard very stealthy
steps.

He waited. Lucy did not come. She had never failed before and he knew she
would come. Waiting became hard. He wanted to go back toward the house
—to intercept her on the way. Still he kept to his post, watchful,
listening, his heart full. And he tried to reason away his strange dread, his
sense of a need of hurry. For a time he succeeded by dreaming of Lucy's
sweetness, of her courage, of what a wonderful girl she was. Hours and hours
he had passed in such dreams. One dream in particular always fascinated him,
and it was one in which he saw the girl riding Wildfire, winning a great race
for her life. Another, just as fascinating, but so haunting that he always
dispelled it, was a dream where Lucy, alone and in peril, fought with Cordts
or Joel Creech for more than her life. These vague dreams were Slone's
acceptance of the blood and spirit in Lucy. She was Bostil's daughter. She
had no sense of fear. She would fight. And though Slone always thrilled with
pride, he also trembled with dread.

At length even wilder dreams of Lucy's rare moments, when she let herself
go, like a desert whirlwind, to envelop him in all her sweetness, could not
avail to keep Slone patient. He began to pace to and fro under the big tree.
He waited and waited. What could have detained her? Slone inwardly laughed at
the idea that either Holley or Aunt Jane could keep his girl indoors when she
wanted to come out to meet him. Yet Lucy had always said something might
prevent. There was no reason for Slone to be concerned. He was mistaking his
thrills and excitement and love and disappointment for something in which
there was no reality. Yet he could not help it. The longer he waited the more
shadows glided beneath the cottonwoods, the more faint, nameless sounds he
heard.

He waited long after he became convinced she would not come. Upon his
return through the grove he reached a point where the unreal and imaginative
perceptions were suddenly and stunningly broken. He did hear a step. He kept
on, as before, and in the deep shadow he turned. He saw a man just faintly
outlined. One of the riders had been watching him—had followed him!
Slone had always expected this. So had Lucy. And now it had happened. But
Lucy had been too clever. She had not come. She had found out or suspected
the spy and she had outwitted him. Slone had reason to be prouder of Lucy,
and he went back to his cabin free from further anxiety.

Before he went to sleep, however, he heard the clatter of a number of
horses in the lane. He could tell they were tired horses. Riders returning,
he thought, and instantly corrected that, for riders seldom came in at night.
And then it occurred to him that it might be Bostil's return. But then it
might be the Creeches. Slone had an uneasy return of puzzling thoughts.
These, however, did not hinder drowsiness, and, deciding that the first thing
in the morning he would trail the Creeches, just to see where they had gone,
he fell asleep.

In the morning the bright, broad day, with its dispelling reality, made
Slone regard himself differently. Things that oppressed him in the dark of
night vanished in the light of the sun. Still, he was curious about the
Creeches, and after he had done his morning's work he strolled out to take up
their trail. It was not hard to follow in the lane, for no other horses had
gone in that direction since the Creeches had left.

Once up on the wide, windy slope the reach and color and fragrance seemed
to call to Slone irresistibly, and he fell to trailing these tracks just for
the love of a skill long unused. Half a mile out the road turned toward
Durango. But the Creeches did not continue on that road. They entered the
sage. Instantly Slone became curious.

He followed the tracks to a pile of rocks where the Creeches had made a
greasewood fire and had cooked a meal. This was strange—within a mile
of the Ford, where Brackton and others would have housed them. What was
stranger was the fact that the trail started south from there and swung round
toward the village.

Slone's heart began to thump. But he forced himself to think only of these
tracks and not any significance they might have. He trailed the men down to a
bench on the slope, a few hundred yards from Bostil's grove, and here a
trampled space marked where a halt had been made and a wait.

And here Slone could no longer restrain conjecture and dread. He searched
and searched. He got on his knees. He crawled through the sage all around the
trampled space. Suddenly his heart seemed to receive a stab. He had found
prints of Lucy's boots in the soft earth! And he leaped up, wild and fierce,
needing to know no more.

He ran back to his cabin. He never thought of Bostil, of Holley, of
anything except the story revealed in those little boot-tracks. He packed a
saddle-bag with meat and biscuits, filled a canvas water-bottle, and, taking
them and his rifle, he hurried out to the corral. First he took Nagger down
to Brackton's pasture and let him in. Then returning, he went at the fiery
stallion as he had not gone in many a day, roped him, saddled him, mounted
him, and rode off with a hard, grim certainty that in Wildfire was Lucy's
salvation.

Four hours later Slone halted on the crest of a ridge, in the cover of
sparse cedars, and surveyed a vast, gray, barren basin yawning and reaching
out to a rugged, broken plateau.

He expected to find Joel Creech returning on the back-trail, and he had
taken the precaution to ride on one side of the tracks he was following. He
did not want Joel to cross his trail. Slone had long ago solved the meaning
of the Creeches' flight. They would use Lucy to ransom Bostil's horses, and
more than likely they would not let her go back. That they had her was enough
for Slone. He was grim and implacable.

The eyes of the wild-horse hunter had not searched that basin long before
they picked out a dot which was not a rock or a cedar, but a horse. Slone
watched it grow, and, hidden himself, he held his post until he knew the
rider was Joel Creech. Slone drew his own horse back and tied him to a
sage-bush amidst some scant grass. Then he returned to watch. It appeared
Creech was climbing the ridge below Slone, and some distance away. It was a
desperate chance Joel ran then, for Slone had set out to kill him. It was
certain that if Joel had happened to ride near instead of far, Slone could
not have helped but kill him. As it was, he desisted because he realized that
Joel would acquaint Bostil with the abducting of Lucy, and it might be that
this would be well.

Slone was shaking when young Creech passed up and out of sight over the
ridge—shaking with the deadly grip of passion such as he had never
known. He waited, slowly gaining control, and at length went back for
Wildfire.

Then he rode boldly forth on the trail. He calculated that old Creech
would take Lucy to some wild retreat in the canyons and there wait for Joel
and the horses. Creech had almost certainly gone on and would be unaware of a
pursuer so closely on his trail. Slone took the direction of the trail, and
he saw a low, dark notch in the rocky wall in the distance. After that he
paid no more attention to choosing good ground for Wildfire than he did to
the trail. The stallion was more tractable than Slone had ever found him. He
loved the open. He smelled the sage and the wild. He settled down into his
long, easy, swinging lope which seemed to eat up the miles. Slone was
obsessed with thoughts centering round Lucy, and time and distance were
scarcely significant.

The sun had dipped full red in a golden west when Slone reached the wall
of rocks and the cleft where Creech's tracks and Lucy's, too, marked the
camp. Slone did not even dismount. Riding on into the cleft, he wound at
length into a canyon and out of that into a larger one, where he found that
Lucy had remembered to leave a trail, and down this to a break in a high
wall, and through it to another winding, canyon. The sun set, but Slone kept
on as long as he could see the trail, and after that, until an intersecting
canyon made it wise for him to halt.

There were rich grass and sweet water for his horse. He himself was not
hungry, but he ate; he was not sleepy, but he slept. And daylight found him
urging Wildfire in pursuit. On the rocky places Slone found the cedar berries
Lucy had dropped. He welcomed sight of them, but he did not need them. This
man Creech could never hide a trail from him, Slone thought grimly, and it
suited him to follow that trail at a rapid trot. If he lost the tracks for a
distance he went right on, and he knew where to look for them ahead. There
was a vast difference between the cunning of Creech and the cunning of a wild
horse. And there was an equal difference between the going and staying powers
of Creech's mustangs and Wildfire. Yes, Slone divined that Lucy's salvation
would be Wildfire, her horse. The trail grew rougher, steeper, harder, but
the stallion kept his eagerness and his pace. On many an open length of
canyon or height of wild upland Slone gazed ahead hoping to see Creech's
mustangs. He hoped for that even when he knew he was still too far behind.
And then, suddenly, in the open, sandy flat of an intersecting canyon he came
abruptly on a fresh trail of three horses, one of them shod.

The surprise stunned him. For a moment he gazed stupidly at these strange
tracks. Who had made them? Had Creech met allies? Was that likely when the
man had no friends? Pondering the thing, Slone went slowly on, realizing that
a new and disturbing feature confronted him. Then when these new tracks met
the trail that Creech had left Slone found that these strangers were as
interested in Creech's tracks as he was. Slone found their boot-marks in the
sand—the hand-prints where some one had knelt to scrutinize Creech's
trail.

Slone led his horse and walked on, more and more disturbed in mind. When
he came to a larger, bare, flat canyon bottom, where the rock had been washed
clear of sand, he found no more cedar berries. They had been picked up. At
the other extreme edge of this stony ground he found crumpled bits of cedar
and cedar berries scattered in one spot, as if thrown there by some one who
read their meaning.

This discovery unnerved Slone. It meant so much. And if Slone had any hope
or reason to doubt that these strangers had taken up the trail for good, the
next few miles dispelled it. They were trailing Creech.

Suddenly Slone gave a wild start, which made Wildfire plunge.

"Cordts!" whispered Slone and the cold sweat oozed out of every
pore.

These canyons were the hiding-places of the horse-thief. He and two of his
men had chanced upon Creech's trail; and perhaps their guess at its meaning
was like Slone's. If they had not guessed they would soon learn. It magnified
Slone's task a thousandfold. He had a moment of bitter, almost hopeless
realization before a more desperate spirit awoke in him. He had only more men
to kill—that was all. These upland riders did not pack rifles, of that
Slone was sure. And the sooner he came up with Cordts the better. It was then
he let Wildfire choose his gait and the trail. Sunset, twilight, dusk, and
darkness came with Slone keeping on and on. As long as there were no
intersecting canyons or clefts or slopes by which Creech might have swerved
from his course, just so long Slone would travel. And it was late in the
night when he had to halt.

Early next day the trail led up out of the red and broken gulches to the
cedared uplands. Slone saw a black-rimmed, looming plateau in the distance.
All these winding canyons, and the necks of the high ridges between, must run
up to that great table-land.

That day he lost two of the horse tracks. He did not mark the change for a
long time after there had been a split in the party that had been trailing
Creech. Then it was too late for him to go back to investigate, even if that
had been wise. He kept on, pondering, trying to decide whether or not he had
been discovered and was now in danger of ambush ahead and pursuit from
behind. He thought that possibly Cordts had split his party, one to trail
along after Creech, the others to work around to head him off. Undoubtedly
Cordts knew this broken canyon country and could tell where Creech was going,
and knew how to intercept him.

The uncertainty wore heavily upon Slone. He grew desperate. He had no time
to steal along cautiously. He must be the first to get to Creech. So he held
to the trail and went as rapidly as the nature of the ground would permit,
expecting to be shot at from any clump of cedars. The trail led down again
into a narrow canyon with low walls. Slone put all his keenness on what lay
before him.

Wildfire's sudden break and upflinging of head and his snort preceded the
crack of a rifle. Slone knew he had been shot at, although he neither felt
nor heard the bullet. He had no chance to see where the shot came from, for
Wildfire bolted, and needed as much holding and guiding as Slone could give.
He ran a mile. Then Slone was able to look about him. Had he been shot at
from above or behind? He could not tell. It did not matter, so long as the
danger was not in front. He kept a sharp lookout, and presently along the
right canyon rim, five hundred feet above him, he saw a bay horse, and a
rider with a rifle. He had been wrong, then, about these riders and their
weapons. Slone did not see any wisdom in halting to shoot up at this pursuer,
and he spurred Wildfire just as a sharp crack sounded above. The bullet
thudded into the earth a few feet behind him. And then over bad ground, with
the stallion almost unmanageable, Slone ran a gantlet of shots. Evidently the
man on the rim had smooth ground to ride over, for he easily kept abreast of
Slone. But he could not get the range. Fortunately for Slone, broken ramparts
above checked the tricks of that pursuer, and Slone saw no more of him.

It afforded him great relief to find that Creech's trail turned into a
canyon on the left; and here, with the sun already low, Slone began to watch
the clumps of cedars and the jumbles of rock. But he was not ambushed.
Darkness set in, and, being tired out, he was about to halt for the night
when he caught the flicker of a campfire. The stallion saw it, too, but did
not snort. Slone dismounted and, leading him, went cautiously forward on
foot, rifle in hand.

The canyon widened at a point where two breaks occurred, and the
less-restricted space was thick with cedar and pinyon. Slone could tell by
the presence of these trees and also by a keener atmosphere that he was
slowly getting to a higher attitude. This camp-fire must belong to Cordts or
the one man who had gone on ahead. And Slone advanced boldly. He did not have
to make up his mind what to do.

But he was amazed to see several dark forms moving to and fro before the
bright camp-fire, and he checked himself abruptly. Considering a moment,
Slone thought he had better have a look at these fellows. So he tied Wildfire
and, taking to the darker side of the canyon, he stole cautiously
forward.

The distance was considerable, as he had calculated. Soon, however, he
made out the shadowy outlines of horses feeding in the open. He hugged the
canyon wall for fear they might see him. As luck would have it the night
breeze was in his favor. Stealthily he stole on, in the deep shadow of the
wall, and under the cedars, until he came to a point opposite the camp-fire,
and then he turned toward it. He went slowly, carefully, noiselessly, and at
last he crawled through the narrow aisles between thick sage-brush. Another
clump of cedars loomed up, and he saw the flickering of firelight upon the
pale-green foliage.

He heard gruff voices before he raised himself to look, and by this he
gauged his distance. He was close enough—almost too close. But as he
crouched in dark shade and there were no horses near, he did not fear
discovery.

When he peered out from his covert the first thing to strike and hold his
rapid glance was the slight figure of a girl. Slone stifled a gasp in his
throat. He thought he recognized Lucy. Stunned, he crouched down again with
his hands clenched round his rifle. And there he remained for a long moment
of agony before reason asserted itself over emotion. Had he really seen Lucy?
He had heard of a girl now and then in the camps of these men, especially
Cordts. Maybe Creech had fallen in with comrades. No, he could not have had
any comrades there but horse-thieves, and Creech was above that. If Creech
was there he had been held up by Cordts; if Lucy only was with the gang,
Creech had been killed.

Slone had to force himself to look again. The girl had changed her
position. But the light shone upon the men. Creech was not one of the three,
nor Cordts, nor any man Slone had seen before. They were not honest men,
judging from their hard, evil looks. Slone was nonplussed and he was losing
self-control. Again he lowered himself and waited. He caught the word
"Durango" and "hosses" and "fer enough in," the meaning of which was, vague.
Then the girl laughed. And Slone found himself trembling with joy. Beyond any
doubt that laugh could not have been Lucy's.

Slone stole back as he had come, reached the shadow of the wall, and drew
away until he felt it safe to walk quickly. When he reached the place where
he expected to find Wildfire he did not see him. Slone looked and looked.
Perhaps he had misjudged distance and place in the gloom. Still, he never
made mistakes of that nature. He searched around till he found the cedar
stump to which he had tied the lasso. In the gloom he could not see it, and
when he reached out he did not feel it. Wildfire was gone! Slone sank down,
overcome. He cursed what must have been carelessness, though he knew he never
was careless with a horse. What had happened? He did not know. But Wildfire
was gone—and that meant Lucy's doom and his! Slone shook with cold.

Then, as he leaned against the stump, wet and shaking, familiar sound met
his ears. It was made by the teeth of a grazing horse—a slight, keen,
tearing cut. Wildfire was close at hand! With a sweep Slone circled the stump
and he found the knot of the lasso. He had missed it. He began to gather in
the long rope, and soon felt the horse. In the black gloom against the wall
Slone could not distinguish Wild-fire.

"Whew!" he muttered, wiping the sweat off his face. "Good Lord!... All for
nothin'."

It did not take Slone long to decide to lead the horse and work up the
canyon past the campers. He must get ahead of them, and once there he had no
fear of them, either by night or day. He really had no hopes of getting by
undiscovered, and all he wished for was to get far enough so that he could
not be intercepted. The grazing horses would scent Wildfire or he would scent
them.

For a wonder Wildfire allowed himself to be led as well as if he had been
old, faithful Nagger. Slone could not keep close in to the wall for very
long, on account of the cedars, but he managed to stay in the outer edge of
shadow cast by the wall. Wildfire winded the horses, halted, threw up his
head. But for some reason beyond Slone the horse did not snort or whistle. As
he knew Wildfire he could have believed him intelligent enough and hateful
enough to betray his master.

It was one of the other horses that whistled an alarm. This came at a
point almost even with the camp-fire. Slone, holding Wildfire down, had no
time to get into a stirrup, but leaped to the saddle and let the horse go.
There were hoarse yells and then streaks of fire and shots. Slone heard the
whizz of heavy bullets, and he feared for Wildfire. But the horse drew
swiftly away into the darkness. Slone could not see whether the ground was
smooth or broken, and he left that to Wildfire. Luck favored them, and
presently Slone pulled him in to a safe gait, and regretted only that he had
not had a chance to take a shot at that camp.

Slone walked the horse for an hour, and then decided that he could well
risk a halt for the night.

Before dawn he was up, warming his chilled body by violent movements, and
forcing himself to eat.

The rim of the west wall changed from gray to pink. A mocking-bird burst
into song. A coyote sneaked away from the light of day. Out in the open Slone
found the trail made by Creech's mustangs and by the horse of Cordts's man.
The latter could not be very far ahead. In less than an hour Slone came to a
clump of cedars where this man had camped. An hour behind him!

This canyon was open, with a level and narrow floor divided by a deep
wash. Slone put Wildfire to a gallop. The narrow wash was no obstacle to
Wildfire; he did not have to be urged or checked. It was not long before
Slone saw a horseman a quarter of a mile ahead, and he was discovered almost
at the same time. This fellow showed both surprise and fear. He ran his
horse. But in comparison with Wildfire that horse seemed sluggish. Slone
would have caught up with him very soon but for a change in the lay of the
land. The canyon split up and all of its gorges and ravines and washes headed
upon the pine-fringed plateau, now only a few miles distant. The gait of the
horses had to be reduced to a trot, and then a walk. The man Slone was after
left Creech's trail and took to a side cleft. Slone, convinced he would soon
overhaul him, and then return to take up Creech's trail, kept on in pursuit.
Then Slone was compelled to climb. Wildfire was so superior to the other's
horse, and Slone was so keen at choosing ground and short cuts, that he would
have been right upon him but for a split in the rock which suddenly yawned
across his path. It was impassable. After a quick glance Slone abandoned the
direct pursuit, and, turning along this gulch, he gained a point where the
horse-thief would pass under the base of the rim-wall, and here Slone would
have him within easy rifle shot.

And the man, intent on getting out of the canyon, rode into the trap,
approaching to within a hundred yards of Slone, who suddenly showed himself
on foot, rifle in hand. The deep gulch was a barrier to Slone's further
progress, but his rifle dominated the situation.

"Hold on!" he called, warningly.

"Hold on yerself!" yelled the other, aghast, as he halted his horse. He
gazed down and evidently was quick to take in the facts.

Slone had meant to kill this man without even a word, yet now when the
moment had come a feeling almost of sickness clouded his resolve. But he
leveled the rifle.

"I got it on you," he called.

"Reckon you hev. But see hyar—"

"I can hit you anywhere."

"Wal, I'll take yer word fer thet."

"All right. Now talk fast.... Are you one of Cordts's gang?"

"Sure."

"Why are you alone?"

"We split down hyar."

"Did you know I was on this trail?"

"Nope. I didn't sure, or you'd never ketched me, red hoss or no."

"Who were you trailin'?"

"Ole Creech an' the girl he kidnapped."

Slone felt the leap of his blood and the jerk it gave the rifle as his
tense finger trembled on the trigger.

"Girl.... What girl?" he called, hoarsely.

"Bostil's girl."

"Why did Cordts split on the trail?"

"He an' Hutch went round fer some more of the gang, an' to head off Joel
Creech when he comes in with Bostil's hosses."

Slone was amazed to find how the horse thieves had calculated; yet, on
second thought, the situation, once the Creeches had been recognized,
appeared simple enough.

"What was your game?" he demanded.

"I was follerin' Creech jest to find out where he'd hole up with the
girl."

"What's Cordts's game—after he heads Joel Creech?"

"Then he's goin' fer the girl."

Slone scarcely needed to be told all this, but the deliberate words from
the lips of one of Cordts's gang bore a raw, brutal proof of Lucy's peril.
And yet Slone could not bring himself to kill this man in cold blood. He
tried, but in vain.

"Have you got a gun?" called Slone, hoarsely.

"Sure."

"Ride back the other way!... If you don't lose me I'll kill you!"

The man stared. Slone saw the color return to his pale face. Then he
turned his horse and rode back out of sight. Slone heard him rolling the
stones down the long, rough slope; and when he felt sure the horse-thief had
gotten a fair start he went back to mount Wildfire in pursuit.

This trailer of Lucy never got back to Lucy's trail—never got
away.

But Slone, when that day's hard, deadly pursuit ended, found himself lost
in the canyons. How bitterly he cursed both his weakness in not shooting the
man at sight, and his strength in following him with implacable purpose! For
to be fair, to give the horse-thief a chance for his life, Slone had lost
Lucy's trail. The fact nearly distracted him. He spent a sleepless night of
torture.

All next day, like a wild man, he rode and climbed and descended, spurred
by one purpose, pursued by suspense and dread. That night he tied Wildfire
near water and grass and fell into the sleep of exhaustion.

Morning came. But with it no hope. He had been desperate. And now he was
in a frightful state. It seemed that days and days had passed, and nights
that were hideous with futile nightmares.

He rode down into a canyon with sloping walls, and broken, like all of
these canyons under the great plateau. Every canyon resembled another. The
upland was one vast network. The world seemed a labyrinth of canyons among
which he was hopelessly lost. What would—what had become of Lucy? Every
thought in his whirling brain led back to that—and it was terrible.

Then—he was gazing transfixed down upon the familiar tracks left by
Creech's mustangs. Days old, but still unfollowed!

THAT track led up the narrowing canyon to its head at the
base of the plateau.

Slone, mindful of his horse, climbed on foot, halting at the zigzag turns
to rest. A long, gradually ascending trail mounted the last slope, which when
close at hand was not so precipitous as it appeared from below. Up there the
wind, sucked out of the canyons, swooped and twisted hard.

At last Slone led Wildfire over the rim and halted for another
breathing-spell. Before him was a beautiful, gently sloping stretch of waving
grass leading up to the dark pine forest from which came a roar of wind.
Beneath Slone the wild and whorled canyon breaks extended, wonderful in
thousands of denuded surfaces, gold and red and yellow, with the smoky depths
between.

Wildfire sniffed the wind and snorted. Slone turned, instantly alert. The
wild horse had given an alarm. Like a flash Slone leaped into the saddle. A
faint cry, away from the wind, startled Slone. It was like a cry he had heard
in dreams. How overstrained his perceptions! He was not really sure of
anything, yet on the instant he was tense.

Straggling cedars on his left almost wholly obstructed Slone's view.
Wildfire's ears and nose were pointed that way. Slone trotted him down toward
the edge of this cedar clump so that he could see beyond. Before he reached
it, however, he saw something blue, moving, waving, lifting.

"Smoke!" muttered Slone. And he thought more of the danger of fire on that
windy height than he did of another peril to himself.

Wildfire was hard to hold as he rounded the edge of the cedars.

Slone saw a line of leaping flame, a line of sweeping smoke, the grass on
fire... horses!—a man!

Wildfire whistled his ringing blast of hate and menace, his desert
challenge to another stallion.

Joy, agony, terror in lightning-swift turns, paralyzed Slone. But Wildfire
lunged out on the run.

Sage King reared in fright, came clown to plunge away. and with a
magnificent leap cleared the line of fire.

Slone, more from habit than thought, sat close in the saddle. A few of
Wildfire's lengthening strides, quickened Slone's blood. Then Creech moved,
also awaking from a stupefying surprise, and he snatched up a gun and fired.
Slone saw the spurts of red, the puffs of white. But he heard nothing. The
torrent of his changed blood, burning and terrible, filled his ears with hate
and death.

He guided the running stallion. In a few tremendous strides Wildfire
struck Creech, and Slone had one glimpse of all awful face. The impact was
terrific. Creech went hurtling through the air, limp and broken, to go down
upon a rock, his skull cracking like a melon.

The horse leaped over the body and the stone, and beyond he leaped the
line of burning grass.

Slone saw the King running into the forest. He saw poor Lucy's white body
swinging with the horse's motion. One glance showed the great gray to be
running wild. Then the hate and passion cleared away, leaving suspense and
terror.

Wildfire reached the pines. There down the open aisles between the black
trees ran the fleet gray racer. Wildfire saw him and snorted. The King was a
hundred yards to the fore.

"Wildfire—it's come—the race—the race!" called Slone.
But he could not hear his own call. There was a roar overhead, heavy, almost
deafening. The wind! the wind! Yet that roar did not deaden a strange,
shrieking crack somewhere behind. Wildfire leaped in fright. Slone turned.
Fire had run up a pine-tree, which exploded as if the trunk were powder!

"My God! A race with Fire!... Lucy! Lucy!"

In that poignant cry Slone uttered his realization of the strange fate
that had waited for the inevitable race between Wildfire and the King; he
uttered his despairing love for Lucy, and his acceptance of death for her and
himself. No horse could outrun wind-driven fire in a dry pine forest. Slone
had no hope of that. How perfectly fate and time and place and horses,
himself and his sweetheart, had met! Slone damned Joel Creech's insane soul
to everlasting torment. To think—to think his idiotic and wild threat
had come true—and come true with a gale in the pine-tops! Slone grew
old at the thought, and the fact seemed to be a dream. But the dry,
pine-scented air made breathing hard; the gray racer, carrying that slender,
half-naked form, white in the forest shade, lengthened into his fleet and
beautiful stride; the motion of Wildfire, so easy, so smooth, so swift, and
the fierce reach of his head shooting forward—all these proved that it
was no dream.

Tense questions pierced the dark chaos of Slone's mind—what could he
do? Run the King down! Make 'him kill Lucy! Save her from horrible death by
fire!

The red horse had not gained a yard on the gray. Slone, keen to judge
distance, saw this, and for the first time he doubted Wildfire's power to ran
down the King. Not with such a lead! It was hopeless—so hopeless
—

He turned to look back. He saw no fire, no smoke—only the dark
trunks, and the massed green foliage in violent agitation against the blue
sky. That revived a faint hope. If he could get a few miles ahead, before the
fire began to leap across the pine-crests, then it might be possible to run
out of the forest if it were not wide.

Then a stronger hope grew. It seemed that foot by foot Wildfire was
gaining on the King. Slone studied the level forest floor sliding toward him.
He lost his hope—then regained it again, and then he spurred the horse.
Wildfire hated that as he hated Slone. But apparently he did not quicken his
strides. And Slone could not tell if he lengthened them. He was not running
near his limit but, after the nature of such a horse, left to choose his
gait, running slowly, but rising toward his swiftest and fiercest.

Slone's rider's blood never thrilled to that race, for his blood had
curdled. The sickness within rose to his mind. And that flashed up whenever
he dared to look forward at Lucy's white form. Slone could not bear this
sight; it almost made him reel, yet he was driven to look. He saw that the
King carried no saddle, so with Lucy on him he was light. He ought to run all
day with only that weight. Wildfire carried a heavy saddle, a pack, a water
bag, and a rifle. Slone untied the pack and let it drop. He almost threw
aside the water-bag, but something withheld his hand, and also he kept his
rifle. What were a few more pounds to this desert stallion in his last run?
Slone knew it was Wildfire's greatest and last race.

Suddenly Slone's ears rang with a terrible on-coming roar. For an instant
the unknown sound stiffened him, robbed him of strength. Only the horn of the
saddle, hooking into him, held him on. Then the years of his desert life
answered to a call more than human.

He had to race against fire. He must beat the flame to the girl he loved.
There were miles of dry forest, like powder. Fire backed by a heavy gale
could rage through dry pine faster than any horse could run. He might fail to
save Lucy. Fate had given him a bitter ride. But he swore a grim oath that he
would beat the flame. The intense and abnormal rider's passion in him, like
Bostil's, dammed up, but never fully controlled, burst within him, and
suddenly he awoke to a wild and terrible violence of heart and soul. He had
accepted death; he had no fear. All that he wanted to do, the last thing he
wanted to do, was to ride down the King and kill Lucy mercifully. How he
would have gloried to burn there in the forest, and for a million years in
the dark beyond, to save the girl!

He goaded the horse. Then he looked back.

Through the aisles of the forest he saw a strange, streaky, murky
something moving, alive, shifting up and down, never an instant the same. It
must have been the wind—the heat before the fire. He seemed to see
through it, but there was nothing beyond, only opaque, dim, mustering clouds.
Hot puffs shot forward into his face. His eyes smarted and stung. His ears
hurt and were growing deaf. The tumult was the rear of avalanches, of
maelstroms, of rushing seas, of the wreck of the uplands and the ruin of the
earth. It grew to be so great a roar that he no longer heard. There was only
silence.

And he turned to face ahead. The stallion stretched low on a dead run; the
tips of the pines were bending before the wind; and Wildfire, the terrible
thing for which his horse was named, was leaping through the forest. But
there was no sound.

Ahead of Slone, down the aisles, low under the trees spreading over the
running King, floated swiftly some medium, like a transparent veil. It was
neither smoke nor air. It carried faint pin points of light, sparks, that
resembled atoms of dust floating in sunlight. It was a wave of heat driven
before the storm of fire. Slone did not feel pain, but he seemed to be drying
up. parching. And Lucy must be suffering now. He goaded the stallion, raking
his flanks. Wildfire answered with a scream and a greater speed. All except
Lucy and Sage King and Wildfire seemed so strange and unreal—the swift
rush between the pines, now growing ghostly in the dimming light, the sense
of a pursuing, overpowering force, and yet absolute silence.

Slone fought the desire to look back. But he could not resist it. Some
horrible fascination compelled him. All behind had changed. A hot wind, like
a blast from a furnace, blew light, stinging particles into his face. The
fire was racing in the tree-tops, while below all was yet clear. A lashing,
leaping flame engulfed the canopy of pines. It was white, seething,
inconceivably swift, with a thousand flashing tongues. It traveled ahead of
smoke. It was so thin he could see the branches through it, and the fiery
clouds behind. It swept onward, a sublime and an appalling spectacle. Slone
could not think of what it looked like. It was fire, liberated, freed from
the bowels of the earth, tremendous, devouring. This, then, was the meaning
of fire. This, then, was the horrible fate to befall Lucy.

But no! He thought he must be insane not to be overcome in spirit. Yet he
was not. He would beat the flame to Lucy. He felt the loss of something, some
kind of a sensation which he ought to have had. Still he rode that race to
kill his sweetheart better than any race he had ever before ridden. He kept
his seat; he dodged the snags; he pulled the maddened horse the shortest way,
he kept the King running straight.

No horse had ever run so magnificent a race! Wildfire was outracing wind
and fire, and he was overhauling the most noted racer of the uplands against
a tremendous handicap. But now he was no longer racing to kill the King; he
was running in terror. For miles he held that long, swift, wonderful stride
without a break. He was running to his death, whether or not he distanced the
fire. Nothing could stop him now but a bursting heart.

Slone untied his lasso and coiled the noose. Almost within reach of the
King! One throw—one sudden swerve—and the King would go down.
Lucy would know only a stunning shock. Slone's heart broke. Could he kill her
—crush that dear golden head? He could not, yet he must! He saw a long,
curved, red welt on Lucy's white shoulders. What was that? Had a branch
lashed her? Slone could not see her face. She could not have been dead or in
a faint, for she was riding the King, bound as she was!

Closer and closer drew Wildfire. He seemed to go faster and faster as that
wind of flame gained upon them. The air was too thick to breathe. It had an
irresistible weight. It pushed horses and riders onward in their flight
—straws on the crest of a cyclone.

Again Slone looked back and again the spectacle was different. There was a
white and golden fury of flame above, beautiful and blinding; and below,
farther back, an inferno of glowing fire, black-streaked, with trembling,
exploding puffs and streams of yellow smoke. The aisles between the burning
pines were smoky, murky caverns, moving and weird. Slone saw fire shoot from
the tree-tops down the trunks, and he saw fire shoot up the trunks, like
trains of powder. They exploded like huge rockets. And along the forest floor
leaped the little flames. His eyes burned and blurred till all merged into a
wide, pursuing storm too awful for the gaze of man.

Wildfire was running down the King. The great gray had not lessened his
speed, but he was breaking. Slone felt a ghastly triumph when he began to
whirl the noose of the lasso round his head. Already he was within range. But
he held back his throw which meant the end of all. And as he hesitated
Wildfire suddenly whistled one shrieking blast.

Slone looked. Ahead there was light through the forest! Slone saw a white,
open space of grass. A park? No—the end of the forest! Wildfire, like a
demon, hurtled onward, with his smoothness of action gone, beginning to
break, within a length of the King.

A cry escaped Slone—a cry as silent as if there had been no
deafening roar—as wild as the race, and as terrible as the ruthless
fire. It was the cry of life—instead of death. Both Sage King and
Wildfire would beat the flame.

Then, with the open just ahead, Slone felt a wave of hot wind rolling over
him. He saw the lashing tongues of flame above him in the pines. The storm
had caught him. It forged ahead. He was riding under a canopy of fire.
Burning pine cones, like torches, dropped all around him. He had a terrible
blank sense of weight, of suffocation, of the air turning to fire.

Then Wildfire, with his nose at Sage King's flank, flashed out of the
pines into the open. Slone saw a grassy wide reach inclining gently toward a
dark break in the ground with crags rising sheer above it, and to the right a
great open space.

Slone felt that clear air as the breath of deliverance. His reeling sense
righted. There—the King ran, blindly going to his death. Wildfire was
breaking fast. His momentum carried him. He was almost done.

Slone roped the King, and holding hard, waited for the end. They ran on,
breaking, breaking. Slone thought he would have to throw the King, for they
were perilously near the deep cleft in the rim. But Sage King went to his
knees.

Slone leaped off just as Wildfire fell. How the blade flashed that
released Lucy! She was wet from the horse's sweat and foam. She slid off into
Slone's arms, and he called her name. Could she hear above that roar back
there in the forest? The pieces of rope hung to her wrists and Slone saw dark
bruises, raw and bloody. She fell against him. Was she dead? His heart
contracted. How white the face! No; he saw her breast heave against his! And
he cried aloud, incoherently in his joy. She was alive. She was not badly
hurt. She stirred. She plucked at him with nerveless hands. She pressed close
to him. He heard a smothered voice, yet so full, so wonderful!

"Put—your—coat—on me!" came somehow to his ears.

Slone started violently. Abashed, shamed to realize he had forgotten she
was half nude, he blindly tore off his coat, blindly folded it around
her.

"Lin! Lin!" she cried.

"Lucy—Oh! are y-you—" he replied, huskily.

"I'm not hurt. I'm all right."

"But that wretch, Joel. He—"

"He'd killed his father—just a—minute—before you came. I
fought him! Oh! ... But I'm all right.... Did you—"

It was then Lucy Bostil saw Cordts across the gulch. He was not fifty
yards distant, plainly recognizable, tall, gaunt, sardonic. He held the
half-leveled gun ready as if waiting. He had waited there in ambush. The
clouds of smoke rolled up above him, hiding the crags.

Another heavy report interrupted Slone. The bullet missed, but Slone made
a pretense, a convulsive flop, as if struck.

"Get the rifle! Quick!" he called.

But Lucy misunderstood his ruse to deceive Cordts. She thought he had been
hit again. She ran to the fallen Wildfire and jerked the rifle from its
sheath.

Cordts had begun to climb round a ledge, evidently a short cut to get down
and across. Hutchinson saw the rifle and yelled to Cordts. The horse-thief
halted, his dark face gleaming toward Lucy.

When Lucy rose the coat fell from her nude shoulders. And Slone, watching,
suddenly lost his agony of terror for her and uttered a pealing cry of
defiance and of rapture.

She swept up the rifle. It wavered. Hutchinson was above, and Cordts,
reaching up, yelled for help. Hutchinson was reluctant. But the stronger
force dominated. He leaned down—clasped Cordts's outstretched hands,
and pulled. Hutchinson bawled out hoarsely. Cordts turned what seemed a paler
face. He had difficulty on the slight footing. He was slow.

Slone tried to call to Lucy to shoot low, but his lips had drawn tight
after his one yell. Slone saw her white, rounded shoulders bent, with cold,
white face pressed against the rifle, with slim arms quivering and growing
tense, with the tangled golden hair blowing out.

Then she shot.

Slone's glance shifted. He did not see the bullet strike up dust. The
figures of the men remained the same—Hutchinson straining, Cordts...
.No, Cordts was not the same! A strange change seemed manifest in his long
form. It did not seem instinct with effort. Yet it moved.

Hutchinson also was acting strangely, yelling, heaving, wrestling. But he
could not help Cordts. He lifted violently, raised Cordts a little, and then
appeared to be in peril of losing his balance.

Cordts leaned against the cliff. Then it dawned upon Slone that Lucy had
hit the horse-thief. Hard hit! He would not—he could not let go of
Hutchinson. His was a death clutch. The burly Hutchinson slipped from his
knee-hold, and as he moved Cordts swayed, his feet left the ledge, he hung,
upheld only by the tottering comrade.

What a harsh and terrible cry from Hutchinson! He made one last convulsive
effort and it doomed him. Slowly he lost his balance. Cordts's dark, evil,
haunting face swung round. Both men became lax and plunged, and separated.
The dust rose from the rough steps. Then the dark forms shot down—
Cordts falling sheer and straight, Hutchinson headlong, with waving arms
—down and down, vanishing in the depths. No sound came up. A little
column of yellow dust curled from the fatal ledge and, catching the wind
above, streamed away into the drifting clouds of smoke.

A DARKNESS, like the streaming clouds overhead, seemed to
blot out Slone's sight, and then passed away, leaving it clearer.

Lucy was bending over him, binding a scarf round his shoulder and under
his arm. "Lin! It's nothing!" she was saying, earnestly. "Never touched a
bone!"

Slone sat up. The smoke was clearing away. Little curves of burning grass
were working down along the rim. He put out a hand to grasp Lucy, remembering
in a flash. He pointed to the ledge across the chasm.

"They're—gone!" cried Lucy, with a strange and deep note in her
voice. She shook violently. But she did not look away from Slone.

"Wildfire! The King!" he added, hoarsely.

"Both where they dropped. Oh, I'm afraid to—to look.... And, Lin, I
saw Sarch, Two Face, and Ben and Plume go down there."

She had her back to the chasm where the trail led down, and she pointed
without looking.

Slone got up, a little unsteady on his feet and conscious of a dull
pain.

"Sarch will go straight home, and the others will follow him," said Lucy.
"They got away here where Joel came up the trail. The fire chased them out of
the woods. Sarch will go home. And that'll fetch the riders."

"We won't need them if only Wildfire and the King—" Slone broke off
and grimly, with a catch in his breath, turned to the horses.

How strange that Slone should run toward the King while Lucy ran to
Wildfire!

Sage King was a beaten, broken horse, but he would live to run another
race.

All of Wildfire was white except where he was red, and that red was not
now his glossy, flaming skin. A terrible muscular convulsion as of internal
collapse grew slower and slower. Yet choked, blinded, dying, killed on his
feet, Wildfire heard Lucy's voice.

"Oh, Lin! Oh, Lin!" moaned Lucy.

While they knelt there the violent convulsions changed to slow heaves.

"He run the King down—carryin' weight—with a long lead to
overcome!" Slone muttered, and he put a shaking hand on the horse's wet
neck.

A change, both of body and spirit, seemed to pass over the great
stallion.

"Wildfire! Wildfire!"

Again the rider called to his horse, with a low and piercing cry. But
Wildfire did not hear.

The morning sun glanced brightly over the rippling sage which rolled away
from the Ford like a gray sea.

Bostil sat on his porch, a stricken man. He faced the blue haze of the
north, where days before all that he had loved had vanished. Every day, from
sunrise till sunset, he had been there, waiting and watching. His riders were
grouped near him, silent, awed by his agony, awaiting orders that never
came.

From behind a ridge puffed up a thin cloud of dust. Bostil saw it and gave
a start. Above the sage appeared a bobbing, black object—the head of a
horse. Then the big black body followed.

"Sarch!" exclaimed Bostil.

With spurs clinking the riders ran and trooped behind him.

"More hosses back," said Holley, quietly.

"Thar's Plume!" exclaimed Farlane.

"An' Two Face!" added Van.

"Dusty Ben!" said another.

"Riderless!" finished Bostil.

Then all were intensely quiet, watching the racers come trotting in single
file down the ridge. Sarchedon's shrill neigh, like a whistle-blast, pealed
in from the sage. From, fields and corrals clamored the answer attended by
the clattering of hundreds of hoofs.

Sarchedon and his followers broke from trot to canter—canter to
gallop—and soon were cracking their hard hoofs on the stony court. Like
a swarm of bees the riders swooped down upon the racers, caught them, and led
them up to Bostil.

On Sarchedon's neck showed a dry, dust-caked stain of reddish tinge.
Holley, the old hawk-eyed rider, had precedence in the examination.

"Wal, thet's a bullet-mark, plain as day," said Holley.

"Who shot him?" demanded Bostil.

Holley shook his gray head.

"He smells of smoke," put in Farlane, who had knelt at the black's legs.
"He's been runnin' fire. See thet! Fetlocks all singed!"

All the riders looked, and then with grave, questioning eyes at one
another.

"Reckon thar's been hell!" muttered Holley, darkly.

Some of the riders led the horses away toward the corrals. Bostil wheeled
to face the north again. His brow was lowering; his cheek was pale and
sunken; his jaw was set.

The riders came and went, but Bostil kept his vigil. The hours passed.
Afternoon came and wore on. The sun lost its brightness and burned red.

Again dust-clouds, now like reddened smoke, puffed over the ridge. A horse
carrying a dark, thick figure appeared above the sage.

The riders dared not answer. They must be sure. They gazed through narrow
slits of eyelids; and the silence grew intense.

Holley shaded the hawk eyes with his hand. "Gray he is—Bostil
—gray as the sage.... An' so help me god if he ain't the
King!"

"Yes, it's the King!" cried the riders, excitedly. "Sure! I reckon! No
mistake about thet! It's the King!"

Bostil shook his huge frame, and he rubbed his eyes as if they had become
dim, and he stared again.

"Who's thet up on him?"

"Slone. I never seen his like on a hoss," replied Holley.

"An' what's—he packin'?" queried Bostil, huskily.

Plain to all keen eyes was the glint of Lucy Bostil's golden hair. But
only Holley had courage to speak.

"It's Lucy! I seen thet long ago."

A strange, fleeting light of joy died out of Bostil's face. The change
once more silenced his riders. They watched the King trotting in from the
sage. His head drooped. He seemed grayer than ever and he limped. But he was
Sage King, splendid as of old, all the more gladdening to the riders' eyes
because he had been lost. He came on, quickening a little to the clamoring
welcome from the corrals.

Holley put out a swift hand. "Bostil—the girl's alive—she's
smilin'!" he called, and the cool voice was strangely different.

The riders waited for Bostil. Slone rode into the courtyard. He was white
and weary, reeling in the saddle. A bloody scarf was bound round his
shoulder. He held Lucy in his arms. She had on his coat. A wan smile lighted
her haggard face.

Bostil, cursing deep, like muttering thunder, strode out. "Lucy! You ain't
bad hurt?" he implored, in a voice no one had ever heard before.

"I'm—all right—Dad," she said, and slipped down into his
arms.

He kissed the pale face and held her up like a child, and then, carrying
her to the door of the house, he roared for Aunt Jane.

When he reappeared the crowd of riders scattered from around Slone. But it
seemed that Bostil saw only the King. The horse was caked with dusty lather,
scratched and disheveled, weary and broken, yet he was still beautiful. He
raised his drooping head and reached for his master with a look as soft and
dark and eloquent as a woman's.

No rider there but felt Bostil's passion of doubt and hope. Had the King
been beaten? Bostil's glory and pride were battling with love. Mighty as that
was, it did not at once overcome his fear of defeat.

Slowly the gaze of Bostil moved away from Sage King and roved out to the
sage and back, as if he expected to see another horse. But no other horse was
in sight. At last his hard eyes rested upon the white-faced Slone.

"Been some—hard ridin'?" he queried, haltingly. All there knew that
had not been the question upon his lips.

"Yes. Joel killed his father, fightin' to get Lucy.... An' I ran—
Wildfire over Joel—smashed him!"

"Wal, I'm sorry for the old man," replied Bostil, gruffly. "I meant to
make up to him.... But thet fool boy!... An' Slone—you're all
bloody."

He stepped forward and pulled the scarf aside. He was curious and kindly,
as if it was beyond him to be otherwise. Yet that dark cold something, almost
sullen clung round him.

"Been bored, eh? Wal, it ain't low, an' thet's good. Who shot you?"

"Cordts."

"Cordts!" Bostil leaned forward in sudden, fierce eagerness.

"Yes, Cordts.... His outfit run across Creech's trail an' we bunched. I
can't tell now.... But we had—hell! An' Cordts is dead—so's
Hutch—an' that other pard of his.... Bostil, they'll never haunt your
sleep again!"

Slone finished with a strange sternness that seemed almost bitter.

Bostil raised both his huge fists. The blood was bulging his thick neck.
It was another kind of passion that obsessed him. Only some violent check to
his emotion prevented him from embracing Slone. The huge fists unclenched and
the big fingers worked.

"You mean to tell me you did fer Cordts an' Hutch what you did fer Sears?"
he boomed out.

"They're dead—gone, Bostil—honest to God!" replied. Slone.

Holley thrust a quivering, brown hand into Bostil's face. "What did I tell
you?" he shouted. "Didn't I say wait?"

Bostil threw away all that deep fury of passion, and there seemed only a
resistless and speechless admiration left. Then ensued a moment of silence.
The riders watched Slone's weary face as it drooped, and Bostil, as he loomed
over him.

"Where's the red stallion?" queried Bostil. That was the question hard to
get out.

Slone raised eyes dark with pain, yet they flashed as he looked straight
up into Bostil's face. "Wildfire's dead!"

"Dead!" ejaculated Bostil.

Another moment of strained exciting suspense.

"Shot?" he went on.

"No."

"What killed him?"

"The King, sir!... Killed him on his feet!"

Bostil's heavy jaw bulged and quivered. His hand shook as he laid it on
Sage King's mane—the first touch since the return of his favorite.

"Slone—what—is it?" he said, brokenly, with voice strangely
softened. His face became transfigured.

"Sage King killed Wildfire on his feet.... A grand race, Bostil!... But
Wildfire's dead—an' here's the King! Ask me no more. I want to
forget."

Bostil put his arm around the young man's shoulder. "Slone, if I don't
know what you feel fer the loss of thet grand hoss, no rider on earth knows!
... Go in the house. Boys, take him in—all of you—an' look after
him."

Bostil wanted to be alone, to welcome the King, to lead him back to the
home corral, perhaps to hide from all eyes the change and the uplift that
would forever keep him from wronging another man.

The late rains came and like magic, in a few days, the sage grew green and
lustrous and fresh, the gray turning to purple.

Every morning the sun rose white and hot in a blue and cloudless sky. And
then soon the horizon line showed creamy clouds that rose and spread and
darkened. Every afternoon storms hung along the ramparts and rainbows curved
down beautiful and ethereal. The dim blackness of the storm-clouds was split
to the blinding zigzag of lightning, and the thunder rolled and boomed, like
the Colorado in flood.

The wind was fragrant, sage-laden, no longer dry and hot, but cool in the
shade.

Slone and Lucy never rode down so far as the stately monuments, though
these held memories as hauntingly sweet as others were poignantly bitter.
Lucy never rode the King again. But Slone rode him, learned to love him. And
Lucy did not race any more. When Slone tried to stir in her the old spirit
all the response he got was a wistful shake of head or a laugh that hid the
truth or an excuse that the strain on her ankles from Joel Creech's lasso had
never mended. The girl was unutterably happy, but it was possible that she
would never race a horse again.

She rode Sarchedon, and she liked to trot or lope along beside Slone while
they linked hands and watched the distance. But her glance shunned the north,
that distance which held the wild canyons and the broken battlements and the
long, black, pine-fringed plateau.

"Won't you ever ride with me, out to the old camp, where I used to wait
for you?" asked Slone.

"Some day," she said, softly.

"When?"

"When—when we come back from Durango," she replied, with averted
eyes and scarlet cheek. And Slone was silent, for that planned trip to
Durango, with its wonderful gift to be, made his heart swell.

And so on this rainbow day, with storms all around them, and blue sky
above, they rode only as far as the valley. But from there, before they
turned to go back, the monuments appeared close, and they loomed grandly with
the background of purple bank and creamy cloud and shafts of golden
lightning. They seemed like sentinels—guardians of a great and
beautiful love born under their lofty heights, in the lonely silence of day,
in the star-thrown shadow of night. They were like that love. And they held
Lucy and Slone, calling every day, giving a nameless and tranquil content,
binding them true to love, true to the sage and the open, true to that wild
upland home.